


open like the best endings (a conclusion wound tight around secrets)

by sealdog



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: (sorry rhysquez fans), (sorry vasquez fans), Attempted Blackmail, Double Penetration, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, rhys/vasquez is solidly non-con, vasquez is the Bad Guy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 03:30:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11432247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sealdog/pseuds/sealdog
Summary: So it starts out as a small mistake, fuelled by too much heartbreak and alcohol, and not enough sex in a very long time. Then it gets worse.The last thing Rhys remembers from before everything became a blur of naked sweaty flesh and murmured filth is Vasquez sliding another pretty blue drink across the bar towards Rhys, a smug, predatory grin on his face as he says, “Drink up, Rhysie. My treat.”Of all the people to have a drunken rebound one-night stand with, did he seriously have to pick his nemesis? Honestly.---Rhys makes a bad mistake. Putting himself back together, after, is hard. Jack helps.





	open like the best endings (a conclusion wound tight around secrets)

**Author's Note:**

> So I started this a really long while ago, when I was in a Not Great place. Got about two-thirds in and dropped it, because I couldn't see any happy ending. More than half a year later, I found the WIP, and decided to finish it, with an ending that might not be happy, but is a hell of a lot more hopeful than anything I could've come up with when I first started writing it.
> 
> Please heed the warnings. Descriptions of the situations in the end notes, for those who wanna check beforehand.
> 
> If non-con is not your thing and you just wanna get to the comfort, ctrl+f "So by worse, Rhys means…kind of really fucking awful." Or just scroll down to the first dotted line.
> 
> not beta-ed. lmk if u see typos etc.

So it starts out as a small mistake, fuelled by too much heartbreak and alcohol, and not enough sex in a very long time. Then it gets worse.

The last thing Rhys remembers from before everything became a blur of naked sweaty flesh and murmured filth is Vasquez sliding another pretty blue drink across the bar towards Rhys, a smug, predatory grin on his face as he says, “Drink up, Rhysie. My treat.”

The rest of it is, honestly, pretty embarrassing. Rhys cringes just remembering how he’d moaned Vasquez’s name as he came, and the memory of chest hair under his hand as he rode Vasquez’s dick. Of all the people to have a drunken rebound one-night stand with, did he seriously have to pick his nemesis? Honestly.

Blearily opening his eyes, Rhys squints through the darkness, trying to figure out where he is. God, he hopes his past self at least had the foresight to make sure they went to a motel or something, and not his own house. Or worse, Vasquez’s.

When he shifts to try and get a look around, the murmuring voices in the background stop. Which is how he even realizes that there _are_ voices in the background.

“Vasquez? Is that you?” Rhys calls out as he sits up.

Or at least, he _tries_ to sit up.

Growing panic accompanies the realization that his hands are tied down, rope around his flesh wrist and a sturdier, unknown synthetic material around his robotic one.

“Hey Ass-quez, this isn’t funny, let me go!” Rhys snarls, hands twisting futilely in their restraints. “Look, we fucked, you came, I came, and this is the part of our one night stand where I leave the hotel room and we pretend like the whole thing never happened.”

“Oh, but Rhysie my boy,” Vasquez says as he flicks on the light and reveals himself, standing next to the bed with a grade-A-for-Asshole smug expression on his face. “We’re not _in_ a hotel room.”

Confused, Rhys looks around. The ostentatious red and black bedspread and the flashy décor of the room hold his attention for a second, but then he’s distracted by the two intimidating looking men standing on either side of Vasquez.

“Uh, Vasquez?” Rhys clears his throat, and very firmly does not look down at where his naked body is exposed to the bright light. “Mind letting me out so I can say hello to your friends? Or even better, so I can say goodbye and we can never talk about this ever again?” He scowls up at Vasquez, pushing down the still growing panic and putting on his best Hyperion face.

Vasquez, smug expression still on his face, shakes his head and sighs obnoxiously. “Rhys, Rhys, Rhys. How are you ever going to climb the ranks of Hyperion if you remain so oblivious and stupid?” He uncrosses his arms to wave at Rhys carelessly. “Well, you boys can go on and get started first, I’m going to go get something to _memorialize_ this with.”

The two men, dressed a lot like those bandits in Hyperion infomercial videos, step closer to the bed as Vasquez turns and walks off, beyond Rhys’ vision.

“Uh…fellas?” Rhys uses his legs to push himself towards the headboard, away from them. His hands continue to tug at the bindings, and he swallows through a dry mouth as he looks between them.

One of them, the one with a narrow moustache, leans forward, and peers at Rhys, looking him up and down. “Looks kinda skinny, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” the other one grunts before beginning to pull off his vest and the red shirt underneath, revealing a heavily tattooed body. “Don't think they feed them enough at Hyperion.”

“W-w-wait, are you- are you guys _bandits_?!” Rhys blurts out, panic overwhelming him as Hyperion warning videos on the dangers of Pandora flash through his mind.

The mustached one snorts, and says, “Yeah that’s us, scary Pandoran bandits, ooh.” He wiggles his fingers as he boos, and rolls his eyes before beginning to strip his own clothes off too.

“Vasquez!” Rhys calls out. “This really isn’t funny, let me go!” He kicks at the tattooed one as he comes closer. “Don’t touch me!”

To his dismay, the two men easily wrestle him into submission, grabbing his legs and ignoring his attempts at struggling away from their hands. Tattoos ducks under one of Rhys’ arms so he’s sitting with Rhys cradled in his lap, and hooks his hands under Rhys’ knees, pulling them up so his hole is exposed. Rhys feels a drop of Vasquez’s come, from earlier, drip out when he tries to kick his leg free, and he flushes hotly, humiliated and angry.

In front of him, Moustache leers down at Rhys as he slides one finger into Rhys’ hole easily, pushing past Rhys’ attempts to clench down on it, keep it out. “Vasquez said he wanted us both in him at once for the first time, right?”

Wait, what?

Rhys freezes, heart thudding so fast and loud he feels like his entire body is vibrating with it. Surely they don’t mean—

“Yeah, you should probably start stretching him out, let me know if you need a hand.” Tattoos settles his grip under Rhys’ knees, and pulls them up higher, almost to Rhys’ shoulders. “At least he’s flexible.”

Rhys shakes his head, muttering “No, no no god no, please- please don’t!” as he renews his struggles.

Moustache just continues to ignore him, and slides in another finger, and then another, pressing into Rhys’ hole and making him squirm and whimper at the intrusive feeling.

“Oh, good, I see you’ve gotten acquainted.” Vasquez’s voice breaks through Rhys’ panic, and he looks up to see Vasquez standing at the foot of the bed, stark naked and with a, oh god no, a camera in his hand, pointed directly at Rhys’ face.

For a long second, Rhys thinks this is all part of a terrible joke, that Vasquez is going to toss the camera away with a laugh and say, “Hah, got you, Rhys!”

Then he hears the telltale whirr of the camera, and sees the way the lens adjusts as Vasquez zooms in.

“Vasquez, please, what are you doing, please stop!” Rhys begs, trying his best to close his legs, inordinately thankful that Moustache’s body is blocking the camera’s view of his hole.

That doesn’t last long.

“Kroger, move to the side so I can get a good angle on this.” Vasquez says, and to Rhys’ horror, Moustache obligingly moves, keeping his fingers in Rhys as he slides to the side. Vasquez moves closer, tilting the camera down so it’s focused on Rhys’ hole as Moustache— no, as Kroger continues to pump his fingers into Rhys carelessly.

Panicked, Rhys tries to clench down, push Kroger’s fingers out as he flicks his gaze between the camera and Vasquez’s face desperately.

“Please, Vasquez, please don’t, why are you doing this?!” Rhys cries out, struggles growing weaker as he tires, adrenaline rush leaving his limbs heavy in its aftermath.

“I’m just getting my money’s worth, Rhysie.” Vasquez brings the camera back up to Rhys’ face, smirking. “I’ve been waiting for so long for the chance to fuck your ambitious little ass, and if it took a whole lot of drinks and a couple of drugs to get to it, then you can bet I’m going to milk it for allllll it’s worth.”

“Wh- oh god, the _drinks_. You drugged the fucking drinks!” Rhys groans, and closes his eyes. Fuck.

“Yeah, all the way from Eden 6. They cost me a pretty penny, but this?” Vasquez brings the camera back down to Rhys’ ass again, whistling lowly as the camera whirrs and zooms in. “This is gonna make it all worth it, baby.”

Whimpering, Rhys shifts his hips, trying to get away from the intrusive fingers and the unrelenting eye of the camera, but its useless. Between Tattoos’ grip on his legs and the pull of the ropes around his wrists, he’s helpless, trapped and completely at Vasquez’s mercy.

“You wanna go first, or me?” Kroger asks, looking over Rhys’ shoulder.

Rhys feels Tattoo’s shoulders moving against his back, and the rumble of Tattoo’s voice as he says, “You sure he’s open enough?”

Kroger slides four of his fingers back into Rhys, making Rhys clench up and cry out in distress. “Yeah, don’t think he’s gonna open up anytime soon. Figured a good fucking might do the trick.”

“Remember, I want a double-shot,” Vasquez says, one hand slowly pumping on his dick, other hand holding the camera steady on Rhys’ ass.

“You got it.” Kroger reaches down and does something out of Rhys’ sight, but the sigh of relief coming from Tattoos and the feeling of something hot and hard and _really fucking huge_ pressing between his cheeks leaves little to the imagination.

Rhys doesn’t know if it’s just the panic and fear that makes Tattoos feel so huge, but he renews his struggles anyway, feeling the rope beginning to leave abrasions on his flesh wrist as he whimpers and tries to get away. There’s no fucking way both Tattoos and Kroger are gonna fit, they’re gonna break him, Rhys is going to fucking die, tied to Vasquez’s bed—

All his panicked thoughts are flung away as Tattoos begins to press the head of his cock against Rhys’ hole, no doubt with a helping hand from Kroger. Crying out in panicked terror, Rhys scrabbles frantically at the ropes, kicking out as much as he can in Tattoos’ grip, trying his best to get away, move as far as he can from the dull, intrusive pressure, but its no use, it just keeps pressing into him, and he screams, a thin, weak sound, as Tattoos’ cock slides in unrelentingly, inch by inch.

He can’t help it, he tightens up against the unwanted intrusion, tries to push it out, but it just keeps coming, until it stops, and he’s left shaking, trembling in Tattoos’ grip and taking shallow, panicked breaths.

“Ohhhohohho that’s it, that’s the ticket,” Vasquez breathes, camera lifting from where it’s recording Tattoos’ cock pressing into Rhys to capture Rhys’ expression. Rhys lifts his gaze, making eye contact with Vasquez, and he doesn’t even try to hide the hatred and humiliation he’s feeling. He glares as hard as he can, putting every single threat he can think of into his expression.

To his despair, Vasquez only laughs mockingly, pushing the camera close to Rhys’ face. “That look on your face, oh Rhysie, I’m going to jerk off so much to it,” Vasquez coos.

Desperate, Rhys lunges forwards, to do what, he doesn’t know. Grab at the camera with his teeth? Bite Vasquez’s nose off?

Either way, Vasquez pulls back too quickly for him to do anything, and Rhys is left panting and snarling and feeling even more helpless than before.

“Ah ah! Don’t be obstinate, Rhys. You’re spoiling my video.” Vasquez frowns. “Finch, get on with it.” He gestures impatiently at Moustache, who rolls his eyes, but steps forward, undoing his pants.

Abruptly reminded of the _double-shot_ Vasquez had spoken of, Rhys, still panting from trying to get at the camera, shakes his head and whimpers. “Oh god no, please please please, Vasquez I’m sorry, please, please let me go, don’t _do_ this, please!”

When Vasquez just shifts his grip on the camera and goes back to touching himself, Rhys turns to Moustache—Finch, and tries again. “Please don’t do this, I’ll pay you, whatever Vasquez offered, I’ll double it, I swear, please don’t—”

Embarrassingly enough, he hears his breath hitch, but maybe that’s because Finch pulls his cock out just then, and Rhys is struck anew with terror. Finch has a fucking _massive_ cock, one that Rhys thinks he’d have a problem taking in even with a fuckton of preparation, and one that is in no way going to fit inside Rhys, not with Kroger already hard and pressing up inside him.

“Oh god, no.” He breathes out, and looks between Finch’s monster cock and Vasquez. “Vasquez, please, there’s no way—you’re going to _kill_ me!”

It’s almost like he’s mute, because nobody responds to him. Finch just leans forwards and slides one finger around the already stretched rim of Rhys’ hole, making him clench and gasp, feeling too tight and right on the edge of breaking already. It’s no use though, Finch just keeps pressing in, until one finger is sliding in alongside Kroger’s cock, and Rhys is tossing his head side to side, trying desperately not to sob at the overstretched, painful feeling. He squeezes his eyes closed, tries to keep in the tears, but its no use, he feels some leak out, much in the same way Vasquez’s come from last night is leaking out of his hole with every probing thrust of Finch’s fingers.

“Aw, are you crying, Rhysie?” Vasquez’s jeer barely penetrates through the fog of panic and pain, but when Rhys opens his eyes to blink away unshed tears, Vasquez is right there, smug expression replaced with something harder, more cruel as he stares, eyes fixed on Rhys’.

“F-fuck you, Vasquez!” Rhys takes in a shuddering breath, trying to ignore the pain, and spits the words at Vasquez.

“That’s the spirit!” Vasquez grins, before turning back to Finch. “You need some lube there, Finch?”

“Yeah.” Finch grunts, and there’s silence for a while, other than their heavy breaths and Rhys’ own whimpers of pain, as Finch eventually manages to get in two fingers, slick with lube, alongside Kroger’s cock.

“Come on man, hurry the fuck up.” Kroger breaks the silence to say, hands shifting so that he’s got a better grip on Rhys’ thighs. “I’m gonna move him, okay?” He says to Finch, who nods.

Suspended between Kroger’s grip on his thighs and the ropes around his wrists, Rhys can’t do anything but watch and shake his head desperately as Kroger lifts him up, a few inches off his dick, and _pulls_ , pulls Rhys back down onto Kroger’s dick and Finch’s fingers.

Rhys _screams_.

He can’t help it, or the way he clenches down in panic. He takes in a sobbing breath, and screams again as Kroger repeats the action, pulling Rhys up and dropping him back down with ease.

A muttered expletive from Vasquez’s direction makes Rhys open his eyes—he hadn’t even noticed he’d squeezed his eyes shut again—and look over. To his humiliation, Vasquez is breathing heavily, lips parted and dick red and hard in his hand as he brings the camera down to Rhys’ hole.

“Oh, Rhysie, if only you could see yourself like this.” Vasquez sighs. “Wait, actually. Finch, keep holding him open, I’m going to get the other camera.”

Vasquez soon returns, this time with a different camera, and bends down to Rhys’ hole, directing Finch to hold Rhys open so that he can get a good shot. Rhys doesn’t listen, too dazed with the effort of trying to breathe.

He’s shaken out of his daze when Finch’s fingers leave him, finally, but before he can even take a relieved breath, hoping that they’ve given up, there’s another cock, pressing up against his entrance, and he’s screaming again, squirming and trying to get away from the sensations, the aching dull pressure against his hole, pressing in and making Rhys clench down desperately in an attempt to keep it out.

“Fuck, fuck please, Vasquez—ah! God, please I can’t, I can’t!” Rhys sobs, desperately trying to jerk away.

Then Finch slides in, and Rhys goes completely still, other than the small trembles shaking through his body. He takes in shallow, sobbing breath after shallow, sobbing breath, trying not to cry out because he feels so _full_ , like he’s going to break, like if he tries to move even a tiny bit he’s just going to get fucking torn in half.

There’s a few seconds where it’s just that, as he tries to adjust around the feeling of having two fucking cocks in him, but it doesn’t last long, because then they start thrusting.

Rhys wails, and notes distantly that his voice is cracking, and that his throat really fucking hurts, but—he can’t help it, there’s no way he can hold it in, not with the way Finch is thrusting in alongside Kroger. It almost feels like he’s being torn apart, and Rhys screams, terrified and pleading and desperate for it to stop.

“Please! Vasquez, stop, please!” He loses track of what he’s saying, lost in the painful drag of the cocks inside him, pulling him open even as he tries to force them out, to move away, to _anything_.

The harsh breaths of the three men around him form a counterpoint to his own ragged screams and whimpers, until one of them, Rhys has no idea who, says, “Vasquez, he’s still too fucking tight, man. Get the pills.”

Rhys hears the words, but their meaning doesn't register until a hand is pressing against his jaw, and fingers are tugging at his lips.

“Wh- No! Mmph!” Rhys clamps his lips shut, tossing his head from side to side in an attempt to shake the hand off. He glares up at Vasquez, who’s holding a blue pill in one hand and pressing at Rhys’ jaw with the other, camera thankfully nowhere in sight.

“Don’t be obstreperous, Rhys, you know it’s not going to work out for you.” Vasquez scowls back. “Kroger, get his nose.”

Kroger takes one of his hands away from where they’re holding Rhys’ knees up and goes to pinch Rhys’ nose shut.

Panicked, Rhys thrashes, kicking out with his free leg, but then Finch has a hand on it, pushes it up even higher than before, making his leg muscles scream. The thrashing unfortunately doesn’t help the dizzying lack of air, and he soon gives in to the black spots appearing in his vision, parting his lips to gulp in as much air as he can. Which is when Vasquez takes the opportunity, and drops the pill into his mouth.

Before Rhys can spit it back out however, Vasquez’s hand is coming back, and water starts pouring into Rhys’ mouth, making him splutter and choke, until he has no choice but to swallow. He feels the pill slide down his throat, a hard lump that sticks despite his desperate swallowing as the water keeps coming, and he wants to scream. He doesn’t know what the pill is supposed to do to him, but he’d bet a year’s worth of his salary that whatever it is, it’s not going to be good.

“Mmfugh!” He jerks his head as far as he can away from the steam of water, choking and trying to convey that the pill is swallowed, could Vasquez please fucking stop now.

To his relief, Vasquez does, and there’s a minute or two where Rhys is just gasping wetly, trying to heave in a proper breath while Vasquez continues to stare at him, and Finch and Kroger’s hands on him tighten and release as they wait—wait for what, Rhys has no idea. He’s just thankful that they aren’t _moving_ , and that Vasquez’s stupid camera is nowhere in sight.

The seconds pass, marked by harsh breaths and the slowly cooling water on Rhys’ chin and neck.

It takes a while for Rhys to feel it, mostly because scenarios of the pill being some kind of sleeping pill or poison keep running through his mind, has Rhys trying desperately to focus on keeping awake, but it eventually hits him, a slowly growing realization that he’s not in pain anymore.

Or rather, _pain_ is not what he’s feeling.

His hole, stretched around Finch and Kroger’s dicks, still throbs in time with his heartbeat, but where before it was wave after wave of pain with each throb, now it’s an almost…good kind of feeling? Each throb brings with it a pulse of warmth, something sweet and heavy spreading through his body, and he shifts uneasily, feeling both very uncomfortable and _way_ too comfortable at the same time. His cock, which has thankfully remained soft throughout the entire ordeal so far, begins to stiffen, and Rhys renews his struggles, horrified and humiliated by his own body’s betrayal.

But, the rope digging into his flesh wrist as he struggles futilely—the abrasive, near tearing feeling from before is melting into pleasurable friction, like the feeling of stretching long unused muscles, and Rhys sighs, twisting his hand against the rope for more of the delicious sensation.

Wait, what?

Startled, he sits up, only to moan at the feeling of the cocks still in him dragging and shifting, pulling at his insides in a way that sends shivers running through his body, makes him arch to chase down that feeling, get more of it.

“ _Fuck_ , that’s more like it.” One of them, Finch, Kroger, Rhys has no idea, hisses, and then they both start thrusting, pulling out and pushing back in alternately, making Rhys cry out and clench down, not to push them out like before, but to _feel_ them, feel the way their cocks slide against his rim, catching and tugging and driving Rhys to moan and shift his hips, thrust back down on them.

“V-Vasquez, what—ah! Fuck, w-what did you _do_ to me!” Rhys gasps out, hating the way his voice breaks as Finch thrusts in particularly hard.

“Just giving you a helping hand, Rhysie. Ain’t no thang.” Rhys tilts his head to the side to where Vasquez’s voice is coming from, only to see that damned camera again, with Vasquez smirking behind it.

“God, I’m gonna fucking _kill_ you, Vasquez!” Rhys’ threat tapers off into a moan as Kroger shifts his hips, and his cock brushes against Rhys’ prostate, making sparks light up behind Rhys’ eyes.

Literally.

His echo eye flickers, the overload of electrical signals through his nerve endings making the connection to his eye glitch out and spark. It’s only ever happened when he first got it, and for it to happen now is deeply unnerving.

Groaning, Rhys tries to pull away, but his efforts are weak, made weaker by the way his body doesn't seem to _want_ to move away, wants to thrust back down onto Finch and Kroger’s cocks, to get more of that blindingly _good_ pressure inside him.

“That’s it, _that’s_ what I’m talking about,” Vasquez hums, sounding immensely and smugly satisfied, and Rhys would strangle him with his own bare hands, if he could—if he—oh _fuck_.

Kroger, eyes fixed on Rhys’ greedily, angles himself, and Rhys barely has time to take in a breath before Kroger’s next thrust hits, right on Rhys’ prostate, and Rhys _screams_ , arching up and twisting against their grips. His cock is by now fully hard, small and red and bobbing up against his stomach as he writhes, electric pleasure suffusing him and leaving him hazy with lust.

“Yeah, keep going, I think he likes that!” Vasquez sniggers, panning the camera down to focus on Rhys’ cock, bouncing along in time to Finch and Kroger’s thrusts.

Behind Rhys, Finch shifts a bit, and then he’s saying, “Wow, you weren’t kidding about how small his dick was.” One hand goes down to toy with Rhys’ dick, pinching it between finger and thumb as Vasquez and Kroger laughs.

Rhys feels himself flush red, even redder than before, and he instinctively moves to try and cover himself up, but its no use, his hands are still tied up, and his cock is bare, exposed for them all to laugh at. Kroger reaches down and nudges Finch’s hand aside so he can flick at Rhys’ cock, hard and red and fucking _tiny_ compared to the other three dicks in the room.

“Aw, it’s cute, look at it!” Kroger prods Rhys’ cock, making Rhys gasp and jerk forwards.

“Yeah, looks real pretty when it comes too,” Vasquez interjects, leering down at Rhys. “Come on then, boys. Let’s get down to business.”

At this point, Rhys is almost grateful for the hands holding his legs up, and the bindings around his wrist. In much the same way that they took away his leverage and left him helpless before, they now work to keep him from thrusting down onto Finch and Kroger’s cocks, and he tells himself that not moving is still resistance, that as long as he’s not begging them to fuck him he’s still—he’s still doing okay.

Then Vasquez reaches down with the hand not holding the camera, and curls it around Rhys’ dick.

“Where’s that enthusiasm of yours when it comes to getting fucked, Rhys? I remember you had quite the dirty little mouth on you last night.” Vasquez squeezes, once, and Rhys whimpers, tossing his head at the overwhelming sensations. Between Vasquez’s grip on his cock and the unrelenting thrusting of Finch and Kroger, the way their dicks slide in and out, leaving him feeling too full and too tight, Rhys thinks he might actually be dying, everything is—too much, too good, too painful.

“If you don’t start talking, I’ll get a cock ring and put it on you, make it so you can’t come.” Vasquez warns, squeezing Rhys’ dick once more before letting go. At a gesture from him, Finch and Kroger obediently stop thrusting, Finch’s hands going back under Rhys’ knees to pull him up, off their cocks entirely, leaving Rhys feeling impossibly empty, his hole gaping as he clenches down on nothing.

The still-rational part of Rhys, an ever-shrinking part but still there nonetheless, says, _good_ , not coming is safer. But Rhys’ body, drowning in the waves of sensations and the effects of the drug, betrays him once more, and Rhys finds himself crying out desperately.

“Ah! Please—please I’ll be good, just fuck me, please fuck me!” Rhys sobs. Whether his sob is in desperation for their cocks to be back inside him, or at this final betrayal of his body, he doesn’t know, because Vasquez gestures, and Finch drops Rhys, back onto his and Kroger’s waiting cocks.

At the feeling of being filled up again, his hole contracting weakly around the cocks in him, Rhys moans, pleasure running like electricity through his body.

“Keep going, go on then, Rhys. Tell me how much you want them to fuck you, or they’ll stop again.” Vasquez brings the camera up to close in on Rhys’ face.

Rhys squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to let the tears come, even as he opens his mouth and says, “I—I want them to fuck me.”

“That’s not enough, come on now Rhysie.”

“Please, I’m—I want their cocks, I need to be filled up, need to be fucked, I’ll do anything, just please don’t stop!” Rhys chokes out from behind gritted teeth.

“Tell the camera what a cock-hungry slut you are, go on.”

Rhys is startled into opening his eyes by Vasquez’s grip on his chin, pulling Rhys’ face to the side so that he’s looking the camera straight on.

When Rhys shakes his head, or tries to, Vasquez frowns, and says, “Don’t make me get the cock ring.”

Rhys’ eyes widen, and he blurts out before he can even think it through, “Please don't! I-I’m—” He looks pleadingly at Vasquez, who only glances pointedly down at the camera.

Rhys takes a breath before he looks directly at the impassive, circular lens, and says, “I’m a, oh _god_. I’m a cock-hungry little slut, please fuck me, use me, I’ll do anything you want, please, _sir_ , just—give me your cock, fuck me hard, I _need_ it!”

Vasquez groans at his words, and Finch pulls out with a muffled curse.

“Fuck, you weren’t kidding about his filthy mouth either, god.”

“I know, right?” Vasquez lets go of Rhys’ chin to pump his own dick, grinning fiercely down at Rhys’ humiliated, flushed face.

“Please don’t stop fucking me, I was good, wasn’t I!” Rhys cries out breathlessly, nudging back against Finch desperately. “Please, please fuck me!”

“Fuck, Vasquez, I hope you got your fill of filming, don’t think I can hold out much longer.” Kroger grunts, hands clenching hard enough on Rhys’ thighs that he can feel the bruises forming already.

“God, okay, okay.” Vasquez puts the camera aside and comes forward with a cock ring.

“No! Please, no, I was good! I did what you said, please don’t—please let me come!” Rhys moans brokenly, twisting away in panic, and then moaning for an entirely different reason as his movements make the cocks in him shift.

Vasquez just ignores his pleading though, and goes to pinch at Rhys’ dick, slipping the cock ring on no matter how much Rhys tries to squirm away.

Rhys feels tears slipping down his face as the cock ring clicks into place, but he’s beyond caring at this point, too panicked at the thought that he might not be able to come after all of this.

“If you continue being a good little slut, I’ll take it off.” Vasquez promises, before reaching up to undo the ropes on Rhys’ wrists. When he’s done, he steps back and raises an eyebrow at Rhys, who’s massaging at his flesh wrist with his robotic one carefully, trying not to agitate the abraded skin while massaging feeling back into his hand. “Well, are you going to be good?”

There’s a long moment where Rhys thinks he can do it, can kick his way out of Finch and Kroger’s grips and punch Vasquez in his stupidly smug face before leaving and calling the cops. He almost does it, he’s so close, he can practically taste the surprise on Vasquez’s face.

Then he closes his eyes and drops his head, mortified, angry at Vasquez and his cronies, but mostly at himself, as he brings his newly free hands down to Kroger’s shoulders, and whispers, “Please…please fuck me.”

He barely hears their laughter through the burning rush of humiliation that washes through him, which is probably for the best.

Finch and Kroger let go of his legs, and then hands are pulling him up, pushing him so that he’s kneeling over their dicks before they let go, and Rhys has to hold on to Kroger’s shoulders and slide down on their dicks himself. He does so, moaning brokenly, lips parted and eyes closed as he clenches down, doing his best to make it good for them, get them to come so he can, hopefully.

Going by the way Kroger’s face is screwed up tight as he thrusts up, Rhys thinks it might not take long. Delirious with the prospect of being able to come soon, he lets go of his verbal filter, lets the words run brokenly out of him in a panting, sobbing stream as he bounces on their cocks, squeezing down as hard as he can with every thrust.

“Fuck, your cocks feel so good in me, so hard, so fucking _big_ , I wanna feel you both come in me, wanna get filled up with your come, please, fuck me, I'm your slut, your dirty cockslut, fill me up—”

With a stuttered groan and fingers digging painfully into Rhys’ waist, Kroger pumps in once, twice more before he buries himself in Rhys’ ass and comes. He doesn’t even have time to slide out before Finch is biting at the back of Rhys’ neck and coming with a muffled grunt, adding to the wet mess leaking out of Rhys as Kroger pulls out gingerly.

Rhys lets go of Kroger’s shoulders to catch himself on the bed, unable to continue kneeling up. There’s a hot, dripping mess between his legs as his gaping hole clenches down on empty air and fails to hold in Finch and Kroger’s come. Some slides down his thighs, and he presses his legs together, whimpering at the feeling.

“It’s not over yet, Rhysie.” Vasquez’s voice pulls him out of his daze, and when he gathers the energy to look up, he sees Vasquez passing the camera over to Finch before going to lie down on the bed, back against the headboard. “Come on now, it’s my turn. Get over here.”

He beckons Rhys over, smug smile on his face never letting up. Beside him, Finch fumbles with the camera for a bit before he gets a proper grip, and begins to film Rhys.

Rhys obeys automatically, movements dazed and sluggish as he fumbles his way over.

“Open up, Rhys. I’ve got something for you.” Vasquez picks up another pill from the bedside table, yellow this time, and slips it into Rhys’ unresisting mouth. He taps at Rhys’ jaw pointedly, and Rhys swallows the pill dry, coughing a little when it feels like it’s going to stick in his throat.

Vasquez then pulls Rhys up so he’s straddling Vasquez’s hips. Rhys squirms, hating the position, hating how the way his legs are parted open wide around Vasquez’s hips makes the come in him drip out faster, sliding down his thighs and balls in an almost ticklish way.

To his relief, Vasquez doesn’t bother with any preamble, just pulls Rhys down, and Rhys sighs with relief at being filled up again, the empty ache in him salved somewhat by the hard press of Vasquez’s cock. He moves at Vasquez’s direction, hands curled on Vasquez’s chest as he blindly follows Vasquez’s directions to lift up and thrust back down, rolling his hips instinctively.

“God, look at how _wasteful_ you’re being.” Vasquez’s chiding tone makes Rhys’ eyes fly open, half-panicked at the thought of having done something wrong.

“Wh- I’m sorry!” He gasps, looking down to where Vasquez’s cock is thrusting into him. To his dismay, he sees the come from before dripping out; Vasquez’s cock is practically covered in it, white globs sliding down the side every time Rhys lifts his hips.

A slap on his cheek makes him gasp and arch, the hot sting spreading through his body like liquid fire.

“Stop being such a wasteful little slut, Rhys. That’s the only lube you’re gonna get for the rest of today,” Vasquez says, slapping Rhys once more and making Rhys moan.

“Y-yes sir, sorry, I’m so sorry!” Rhys reaches down to scoop the come up, pushing it into himself alongside Vasquez’s cock. The aphrodisiac coursing through his veins makes it so hard to think straight, or move like he wants to, and it takes him a few tries to get it right, whimpering and fumbling between his legs pathetically.

Then there’s a solid body behind him, and someone, Kroger, it must be Kroger, because when Rhys looks up, Finch is still sitting beside Vasquez, camera trained on where Rhys’ fingers are sliding into himself. Kroger presses up against Rhys’ back, and there are fingers helping him push the come in, and a cock pressing against Rhys’ hole.

Rhys barely has time to gasp out a “Thank you, thank you thank you thank you” before Kroger’s thrusting in, and Rhys is back to trying to catch his balance as he’s fucked into, fucked and filled up and the delirious, drug-addled part of him completely in control (or not) of his body right now cries out in relief and frustrated pleasure.

“Please, please let me come,” he begs, even as he thrusts down and pants. “Jack, _please_!”

“Ohohoho, what do we have here?” Vasquez jeers, one hand going down to tug at Rhys’ balls. “Someone’s got a little crush on Handsome Jack, eh?”

Rhys shakes his head, trying to clear the lust-addled fog away. No, this isn’t—this isn’t Jack, this isn’t _right_. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, to explain, but before he can, Vasquez is speaking again.

“You think Handsome Jack would have anything to do with a little slut like you?” Vasquez yanks on Rhys’ balls, hard, in a way that would have made Rhys scream in pain any other time, but the drugs in his body turn the wrenching pain into something that feels like fire running through his nerves, turning his body pliable and further loosening his grip on reality even as he moans.

“You’re not fit to even _look_ at him, you think Handsome Jack wouldn’t walk in here and take one look at you and not see how much of a pathetic and well-used slut you are? Sure, he’d fuck you, but that's just because that's all you’re good for. He wouldn’t even have to touch you with his own hands; I’d tie you up so you’d just be a perfectly positioned hole for him to fuck, just your ass, pushed up and open like the cockhungry slut you are—”

Rhys doesn’t know if it's the mention of Jack, of the idea that Jack could see his humiliation now, or just his instinctive reaction to the idea of being fucked by Jack, but he’s coming. It’s completely dry; his poor, abused cock stays as red and hard as ever, but wave after wave of bone-wracking pleasure rides through him, leaves him thrusting down as he chases the pleasure, shouting in pleasure/pain as his entire body tightens up and he whites out, loses himself in it.

When he comes to from the orgasm, he’s facedown on the bed, being fucked hard and fast by Vasquez, who’s got a hand in Rhys’ hair and is pulling angrily, jerking Rhys’ head back and cursing as he rides Rhys’ ass hard enough that Rhys’ still hard cock, pressed against the bed, hurts even through the haze of drugs.

Crying out against the pain, Rhys struggles to sit up, clutching at the bed and trying to get away from Vasquez. When he looks around desperately for help, Finch and Kroger are nowhere in sight.

“I can’t believe you fucking came, you did, didn’t you? What, was it the mention of your precious Handsome Jack? Fuck you, fuck you Rhys, I’m gonna make you fucking regret ever saying no to me, I’m gonna fuck you so hard, your pathetic little cock will never be able to get up again without you thinking of _me_.” Vasquez snarls, hand tightening on Rhys’ hair.

“Ah! Please—please stop, Vasquez, you’re _hurting_ me!” Rhys yelps, voice scratching at his throat, the pain pushing through the haze of pleasure and dragging him into consciousness proper.

“That’s the fucking _plan_ , Rhys, catch up already, god!” Vasquez yanks Rhys’ head back, and bends down to bite at Rhys’ neck, right over his tattoo, making him scream and renew his struggles.

The squelching, slapping sounds of Vasquez fucking into him are a counterpoint to Rhys’ terrified, choked off breathing as he scrabbles futilely at Vasquez’s hands and the bed. His struggles only make Vasquez snarl, and one large hand comes up to cover Rhys’ nose and mouth, pressing down in a way that makes Rhys frantically bat at it, to no avail.

Distantly, Rhys notes that Vasquez’s stupid metal pinky finger is digging into his cheek, hard enough that, at one particularly hard thrust of Vasquez’s hips, the metal nail cuts, deep, and he smells blood, sharp even over the overwhelming scent of come and sweat.

Vasquez lets go of Rhys’ face to slide three fingers into Rhys, alongside his cock, and _tugs_ , pulling Rhys open viciously. By this time, all Rhys can manage is a panicked whine, voiceless and frantic, even as the drugs coursing through his body repeats the mantra that the pain is good, the pain is pleasure, that what he’s feeling right now is what he wants.

Torn between all the sensations, Rhys takes in one breath, more a sob than a breath really, and then another, and passes out.

\-----------------------

So by worse, Rhys means…kind of really fucking awful.

When he comes to, it’s to a familiar pair of mismatched eyes watching him, narrowed in either concern or anger, Rhys can’t tell.

Confused, Rhys sits up, only to whine and collapse, limbs twitching uselessly. His entire body _aches_ , from his hair down to his toes and all the way to his right shoulder. He can feel the telltale air against the bare skin of his right shoulder, which means his arm is detached and off…somewhere. The pain in his ass and his cheek is the worst, throbbing in time with every panicked thump of his heart, but they’re not the only parts of his body hurting. His hips and thighs feel like they’ve been through a beating, and every minute movement brings a fresh twinge of pain.

His head hurts too. Everything is too bright, too loud, but when he closes his eyes, the horrible cotton-ey feeling only intensifies, a pressure behind his eyes that makes him frantically sit up, past the screaming of his bodily aches, so he can lean over the side of the bed and vomit.

It’s mostly stomach bile, mixed with half-digested semen. At the sight of the white streaks in his vomit, Rhys feels himself start to cry without even knowing why, sobs coming in between the heaving and retching in a no doubt incredibly undignified way.

He sees movement at the corner of his eye, and jerks away, panicked. When the thumping of his heart slows down and he feels like he can breathe again, he looks up and catches a contorted, terrifyingly angry expression cross Jack’s face as he lowers his hand from where it’d been about to touch Rhys’ shoulder.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Jack says, breaking eye contact to turn away, rising up from where he’d been sitting on the edge of the bed. When he returns, it’s with a damp cloth, which he holds out to Rhys, offering it to him. “Here, for your face.”

Rhys slowly sits up, wincing at the way it makes something in his ass feel like it’s pulling apart, and takes the cloth from Jack, who bends down and starts cleaning up the vomit, to Rhys’ embarrassment.

“Thanks,” he says. Tries to, anyway. What comes out is hoarse and scratchy, and really fucking far from sounding human, and Rhys winces.

He uses the cloth to wipe at his mouth, before handing it back to Jack, making sure to keep his gaze averted.

“You missed a spot.” Jack’s voice is quiet, unusually so, and something deep in Rhys’ chest twinges.

A voice that sounds remarkably like Vasquez’s whispers to Rhys, says that Rhys is just incompetent, can’t even clean up after himself, that Jack’s tired of him, tired of having to deal with Rhys, and now that Rhys has gone and proven himself to be a useless slut for anybody and everybody, Jack’s going to rid himself of Rhys, once and for all.

“Sorry.” Rhys squeezes the word out painfully, trying to ignore the voice even as it continues to whisper, relentless in his mind.

He reaches out to take the cloth, only to glance up, startled, when Jack pulls it back, out of his reach.

“Let me?” Jack says, eyes steady on Rhys’.

“Sorry.” Rhys tries again, looking down and away. “I—sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Jack reaches forward, and wipes gently at Rhys’ chin. “Nothing to apologize for, kitten.”

When he’s done wiping at Rhys’ chin, Jack turns away, and Rhys hears the sound of cloth swishing in water before Jack turns back, and holds a new cloth up so Rhys can see.

“You’re crying.” Jack says with a shrug.

Rhys can’t help but snort, a wet, embarrassing half-laughing snort, at the uncomfortable expression on Jack’s face. It’s a familiar expression, the same one that Jack always got whenever Rhys tried to discuss their relationship, or whenever Rhys expressed an emotion outside the bedroom. The familiarity of it, the way Jack’s mouth is tilted down at the corners and the tiny frown line between his eyebrows, is distracting, in a good way.

“Sorry,” Rhys says again. “I’ll stop in a bit, just—give me a second.” He shifts uncomfortably, wincing again at the various aches and pains across his body. When he glances down, he realizes that he’s in Jack’s clothes, familiar yellow sweatshirt and loose grey sweatpants soft on his skin.

It’s probably for the best. He’s not sure he wants to look at his own body just yet.

“It’s okay.” Jack says again, uncomfortable expression smoothing out. He reaches forwards slowly, pausing to wait for Rhys’ nod, before he starts dabbing the cloth against Rhys’ cheeks, wiping under his eyes carefully.

Thankful for the excuse, Rhys closes his eyes, and tries to focus on the cool dampness of the cloth, take his mind off the pain.

“How…” Rhys trails off, not sure how to phrase the question. How did he end up here? How did he get out from Vasquez’s place? What even had happened after…

Distantly, he recalls being pushed onto all fours, ass sticking up so Vasquez could—

“Your weird little buff friend.” Jack’s voice breaks into the fog in Rhys’ head. “Came up to my office and started yelling at me.”

“Wait—Vaughn?” Rhys asks, startled into opening his eyes.

Jack doesn’t seem to have any problem deciphering Rhys’ mangled croaks, because he shrugs, and continues.

“Yeah, glasses, kinda short. That one. He threatened to take me to the police, said what I did was against the law, that he had evidence of how fucked up I was. Kinda ballsy, isn’t he?” Jack seems almost impressed, and Rhys smiles, despite the painful tugging of his cheek. “Anyway, I told him I had no idea what the crap he was going on about, and he shoved this like, folder full of pictures at me.”

Oh no.

“I’m not sure what my face did when I saw those pictures, but I think it was the expression you call my quote-unquote _murder face_ , because he stopped, and said, ‘Wait, it wasn’t you, was it?’ _Obviously_. Anyway, apparently, someone rang your doorbell early in the morning, and when he opened the door you were there, naked and unconscious.” Jack huffs, and his eyes dart down to Rhys’ body before going back up, something angry and dangerous fleeting in his expression.

“Brought you back to my place and had a professional clean you up. Very discreet, don’t worry. Didn’t even airlock them to keep their mouth shut, you’ll be so proud of me.” Jack waggles his eyebrows at Rhys, who can’t help but smile again, even though he feels fresh tears coming.

“Wait, wait why are you crying again! What did I say? Was it the airlock joke?” Jack asks, dismayed and confused.

In response, Rhys just shakes his head, wiping at his eyes furiously as he gestures for Jack to continue.

“I…alright, okay. Anyway, the medic said to just let you rest for a couple of days, gave me a bunch of stuff for your uh…for the worst injuries, along with some healing accelerant pills. Also gave me a really nasty look before they left. Seriously, is there something about my face that says I’d do this kinda crap to my boyfriend?” Jack scowls.

“Ex-boyfriend.” Saying it is painful, and not just because of the way his throat feels like there are glass shards in it.

“Uh, yeah, because _you_ broke up with me.” Jack points out.

Rhys scowls, and opens his mouth to retort, but is interrupted by Jack saying, “Nope, shh, you’re not supposed to be talking yet. You’re supposed to be resting and healing up, come on.”

He disappears, but reappears soon enough with a handful of pills and a glass of water, holding it out to Rhys. When Rhys reaches out with an only mildly shaky hand to take the glass however, Jack pushes his hand away, gently, but firmly.

“Let me, please.” Jack’s voice is very, very quiet.

“I can.” Rhys forces it out past the rawness in his throat, doesn’t look Jack in the eye.

“Okay.” Jack says, and hands the glass and pills to Rhys, carefully, large hands hovering but not touching.

Swallowing the pills is painful, burns down his throat and makes him think of too much water and blue yellow blue pills falling into his mouth, but Rhys does it.

Taking the tube of ointment Jack holds out to him, pulling his pants down so he can reach behind himself and smear the oily, vaguely herbal-scented stuff onto himself, is harder. Pressing his fingers in, feeling the swollen, tender, scabbing skin there takes a couple of deep, shaky breaths, but he does it too.

Jack stands beside him all the while, face averted as he holds Rhys’ pants for him.

Rhys doesn’t blame him, honestly.

He’s trying not to look at himself either. There are bruises littered all over his hips and thighs, bruises the size of finger prints, bruises that are larger, more angular, and the whole thing is a mess of blue and purple, smearing across pale skin. The horrible thing, the worst part about all this, is that the bruises are not an _unfamiliar_ look. He and Jack have played rough, more than rough, but this time, the marks weren’t made by Jack. With Jack, one of Rhys’ favorite things to do post-play is to linger over each mark and fondly remember how he’d gotten it, but this time, when Rhys tries to remember what caused which bruise, his mind skitters away, slides over the memories.

Pulling the pants back on with just one hand is exhausting, and Rhys eventually gives in to Jack’s hovering hands and anxious frown, and lets Jack help him tug it over his hips. Jack’s hands are careful, but certain, nothing at all like Vasquez’s, and it’s…surprisingly easy for Rhys to let himself be moved into place.

When Jack’s done, he pulls the blanket over Rhys’ waist, and hovers for a bit longer before finally saying, “Bell on the bedside table. Ring it, if you need anything. I’ll be outside.”

He closes the door behind him quietly when he leaves, a mild surprise considering the number of times they’ve had arguments about doors and slamming. Rhys stares after him.

The bed is soft though, and so are Jack’s clothes on Rhys’ skin. The sheets smell like Jack, like he hasn’t remembered to wash them in a while now, like he’s been too busy with work, and Rhys sighs, closing his eyes.

Sleep comes fast, and he falls into it with relief.

\---

Rhys sleeps a lot, in the next few days.

His dreams range from unpleasant, red and black tinged ones where cameras record his silent screams from all directions, to confusing, hazy, but rather more pleasant ones where large, warm hands are careful on Rhys’ body, carrying him into warm baths, cleaning the sweat and tears off his face, replacing his bandages, feeding him warm soup.

The next time he’s awake, and coherent enough to realize it’s Jack who has been cleaning and feeding him, his throat has healed enough that he can talk, albeit painfully.

The first thing he says to Jack is, “Why are you doing this?”

Jack pauses from where he’s rewrapping the bandage around Rhys’ wrist to look up at Rhys, a small frown line appearing above the bridge of the glasses he only ever wears when the mask is off.

“The hell do you mean, why am I doing this?”

Rhys shrugs, looking away. “We’re not dating anymore, so…”

Jack scowls, carefully placing Rhys’ hand down so he can glare at Rhys. “Look, _you_ broke up with me, remember? And okay, I know you think I’m an asshole, and you’re not _wrong_ , but I wouldn’t just leave somebody I l—I’m not just gonna leave you to deal with this on your own, alright?” 

Still scowling, he picks Rhys’ hand up to continue bandaging it, but Rhys pulls it away, a frown on his own face.

“ _I_ broke up with _you_? You’re the one who kept ditching me on our dates! And I’m pretty sure you avoided me for three weeks straight until I went to your office and snuck past your secretary so we could talk face to face, instead of you sending me _sorry babe, can’t make it_ texts.”

“I had work! And yeah, you snuck in and yelled at me and _broke up with me_ , hello?” Jack’s voice gets louder towards the end, and Rhys flinches despite himself.

When he does though, Jack immediately shuts up, and pulls back a bit, which makes Rhys feel even crappier. Jack might have been the one distancing himself before the end of their relationship, but…he’s right. Rhys was the one who gave Jack the ultimatum, told him that if he was serious about their relationship, Rhys would be waiting at home for his call after work. If not, then…

Obviously, the call never came, and Rhys had spent the next two days wallowing in misery before turning to alcohol and the comfort of a stranger’s embrace. Only alcohol had turned out to be less than a comfort, and the stranger to be—

“I meant to call you,” Jack says, very quietly, before he picks Rhys’ unresisting hand up and finishes up the bandage. “I meant to call you that night, I swear.”

When he’s done, he places Rhys’ hand back down on the comforter, but doesn’t let go of it.

“I had- _have_ a project that was and still is taking up a lot of my time. But you’re right, that’s no excuse; I should have made more time for you. I’ve had that pointed out to me a lot in the past couple of days. From your weird little buff friend, and those scary sisters, and even Nisha.” Jack snorts, one thumb rubbing idly along the back of Rhys’ hand. “Been called an idiot a lot. Not really my idea of fun, to be honest.”

“Wait, Vaughn, Fiona, Sasha…they know?” Rhys feels a horrible, swooping sensation in his stomach at the idea that his friends know what happened, that they know it’s all his fault, that more people will see what the truth of what Vasquez said.

“Hm? No, not about…all of this.” Jack gestures vaguely, watching Rhys with narrowed eyes. “Vaughn does though, sort of. Not the whole story. They don’t have to, if you don’t want them to.”

“Please!” Rhys says without hesitation. “They can’t—” He takes a deep breath, feeling something in his chest tighten at the idea, until the next thing he knows, Jack’s hand is rubbing gingerly against his back, and his familiar voice is telling Rhys to breathe in, one two three four, breathe out, one two three four.

“Sorry.” Rhys says, when he can breathe again.

“Nothing to apologize for, kitten.” Jack sighs, and picks up Rhys’ hand from where he’s still holding it to kiss Rhys’ knuckles, lips brushing across them in a way that’s oddly tender. “Nothing to apologize for at all.”

Rhys’ fingers twitch, and he pulls his hand back, wincing at the frown that flashes across Jack’s face, but before he can say anything, Jack stands up.

“Right, I should…let you rest some more, huh. I’ll be outside, if you need me.”

“Shouldn’t you be going back to work, though?” Rhys blurts out without thinking. When Jack’s eyebrows shoot up, he continues, “Your project’s not done yet, right? You don’t—I can go home, you must have a ton of work to do, sorry.”

He moves to get out of bed, but Jack’s there, hands hovering as he scowls and tries to shepherd Rhys back into lying down without actually touching Rhys.

“Nuh-uh, I’ve got things all taken care of, you just lie back there and relax, watch one of those crappy fake action movies or something.” Jack heaps three whole blankets onto Rhys’ body, and pushes the topmost one up all the way up to Rhys’ nose, tucking it over his ears and ignoring Rhys’ spluttering. “I’ve got Loader Bots bringing me whatever I need from the office, and all the pretzels I could ever want in a pile next to my desk like, literal pile, kinda proud of it actually, been thinking I should go into pretzel bag sculpting or something, I’m _clearly_ a natural at this…”

The door shutting behind Jack cuts off his rambling, and Rhys pulls the blanket off his face, laughing despite himself. There’s a soft, pleased feeling in his chest when he thinks about Jack bringing his work home so he can take care of Rhys, one that only grows when he looks down and sees the wonky bandaging on his left wrist.

He pushes his way out of his blanket prison and stands up gingerly before going to the door and pulling it open a crack.

The living room outside shows all the usual signs of having been hit by Hurricane Jack. Empty pretzel and crisp packets lie scattered everywhere, and the sofa is covered in about equal amounts of pillows and paper. The man himself is sprawled out on the floor next to the sofa, typing furiously on a projected keyboard.

When Rhys closes the door behind him, Jack looks up, squinting past his glasses.

“Babe? You should be in bed.” He stands up, and papers flutter to the floor.

Rhys shrugs, and walks over carefully, stepping between stacks of paper and coffee mugs until he’s standing next to Jack, who’s watching him with narrowed eyes and twitching hands.

“Had enough of bed, to be honest.” Rhys says as he makes some space on the sofa and sits down on it. Slowly.

Jack nods once in response before turning back to his papers, eyebrows furrowing in a familiar way. Rhys settles into the sofa’s cushions, Jack’s annoyed muttering and intermittent, explosive, exasperated sighs a comforting background noise. Belatedly, he realizes that he’d naturally gravitated to the same spot on the sofa he’d always sat in when visiting Jack.

Still, it’s comfortable. It feels good to be sitting up, and the expansive living room is a pleasant change from the bedroom. Not that the bedroom was bad or anything, but being cooped up there for more than two days was beginning to fray Rhys’ nerves. Rhys idly looks through the papers balancing precariously on the sofa arm, skimming through the words without actually reading them.

At his feet, Jack sighs again, and rolls onto his back to stare up at Rhys.

“Why am I surrounded by idiots, Rhysie?” Jack asks, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“Because you fired their predecessors and promoted people with zero management experience?” Rhys nudges Jack’s shoulder with a foot, grinning down at him. He never fails to find it funny how Jack himself has like, negative management skills, a tendency to fire and promote people seemingly based on whim, and yet somehow remains one of the most successful CEOs around. But then, Rhys probably shouldn’t complain too much.

Jack catches Rhys’ ankle with one hand, and squeezes it, scowling up at Rhys. “Yes, but they were _so good_ at their previous job, how hard can it be for them to manage other people doing their old job?!” Letting go of Rhys’ foot with one last squeeze, he rolls back over onto his front, grumbling. “Fricken idiots, I swear. Should replace every last one of them with a loader bot. Or clone you, and have you do all my work for me. Or hire actual children, because I’m pretty sure…”

Jack’s grumbling trails off as he gets sidetracked into whatever it was he’d been working on before he paused to complain, and Rhys laughs, the sound rusty but warm in his throat.

Like this, its easy to pretend the past few days never happened. That he and Jack are still happily dating, and that he’s waiting for Jack to finish his work so they can go to bed.

He curls his legs under him and leans against the side of the sofa, watching Jack work, eyes tracing the familiar lines of Jack’s back in that dumb blue sweater he wears for weeks on end.

Somehow, despite Jack’s occasional bout of frustrated hissing at his screen, and the not actually very comfortable position he’s in, Rhys falls asleep.

\---

He stirs awake at the sensation of being picked up, but a familiar voice, more felt than heard in the rumblings of the chest his shoulder is resting against, shushes him. “Go back to sleep, kiddo. I got you. Go back to sleep.”

And Rhys does.

\---

The next day, when Rhys wakes up in the morning, something feels different. He lies there for a long minute or two, face pressed to the pillow beneath his head, and tries to figure out what it is. Maybe something he’d been dreaming of? It hadn’t been one of the bad dreams, had been a _good_ one in fact. Hazy, vague memories of warm, huge hands on his shoulders, familiar lips on his own, and low laughter against his throat flash by, which is…nice, but not very helpful.

It takes him a moment, but then he shifts, and– oh.

He pushes himself up to sit against the headboard, and stares down at his lap. It hasn’t actually been that long, but it _feels_ like forever, and the hard-on tenting his- no, _Jack’s_ boxers is weirdly unfamiliar, yet not. Rhys fidgets uncomfortably, not sure whether or not he wants to even do anything about it. On the one hand, he’s irrationally pleased about the entire thing, pleased that Vasquez hasn’t…broken him or anything, and that he can still get turned on. On the other, the prospect of touching himself, of reaching into his pants to where his cock lies semi-hard but already insistent, makes him flinch.

Still, the idea that Vasquez might have taken anything away from him is annoying, much less something Rhys enjoys so much, and he scowls down at himself, trying to steel himself into doing it.

Taking a deep breath and staring up at the ceiling so he won’t have to see the lingering bruises on his hips, he shoves his boxers down and grabs his cock.

Only to immediately let go, because it feels _wrong_ somehow.

And then he feels even dumber, because- that’s _his own cock_ , for fuck’s sake. He’s been having fun with it since he hit puberty, for it to feel wrong now is all sorts of stupid, and more than ever, he hates Vasquez for making him feel like this: dirty and uncomfortable in his own skin.

“Okay, slowly,” he breathes out, and closes his eyes. His cock, resting on the waistband of the boxers, has gone soft, but he’s more determined than ever to make sure Vasquez didn’t take this away from him.

Maybe desperate is a better word than determined, but Rhys tries not to think of that.

Instead, Rhys tries to remember how it’d felt to wake up with a hard-on, to recall that hazy pleasurable feeling, and lights on the memory of Jack’s hands on him. It works, sort of. It takes a couple tries to remain focused, but he thinks about the way Jack’s hands feel when they touch him, when they lift him up to hold him against the wall, when they press him down into the bed, when they’re the only things Rhys is aware of as he submits, blindfolded and ears plugged, to Jack’s mercy. He thinks about the way Jack’s hands gesture as Jack complains about work, or gets excited about something, or clench on his battered stress-ball as he does his weekly video calls with Angel.

As he does so, he trails his hand down his body, avoiding the healing places, still tender beneath his thin t-shirt. This new plan seems to be working, somewhat. He brings to mind an old, favorite memory: Jack giving him a birthday blowjob. Well, it’d been _Jack’s_ birthday, but all Jack apparently wanted to do was to suck Rhys off over and over again until Rhys was sobbing and scrabbling at his shoulders. It would take a stronger man than Rhys to say no to that.

He lets his hand linger at his crotch, not quite touching his now hardening dick, and thinks on how it’d felt when Jack had made him come for the third time, two fingers in Rhys and his mouth hot and relentless on him. Rhys arches up from the bed despite himself, barely feeling the bruises and aches in his body, lost in the memory. His breath quickens as he finally touches himself, and he furrows his brows at the sensation, lips parting on a soundless gasp.

Focused on the memory of what it’d been like to lose himself in Jack’s hands, Rhys strokes at his dick tentatively, wishing desperately that his other arm was reattached so he could clutch at the sheets or the pillow or the headboard or _anything_.

Then, frustrated by his lack of a second hand and annoyed at how the elastic band of his boxers is rubbing against his wrist, he makes the mistake of opening his eyes and glancing down to adjust it.

The many blue, purple, and yellow reasons he’d avoided looking at himself stare back up at him. There are marks even on his dick, and Rhys touches one carefully, hissing at how prodding it beyond a light touch makes it hurt. Even as he watches, his dick twitches, and seems to wilt a bit.

“Fuck.”

Thumping his head back onto the pillow, Rhys glares up at the ceiling. Then anger takes over, and he curses to himself, determined not to let Vasquez win. Sitting up, he turns his glare down to his dick.

“Buddy, we’re _doing_ this, don’t you dare wuss out on me now,” he hisses, keeping his voice low in case Jack’s outside and within earshot.

Still glaring, he grabs his dick, flinches because- ow, too hard, and then takes hold of it again, more gently this time.

Grimly, he sets to work.

It’s harder now, to keep thinking about Jack, because every time he glances down, he sees Vasquez’s stupid, hairy face smirking up at him as he’d pinched Rhys’ sore dick (oh, so that’s where _that_ bruise had come from). Closing his eyes doesn't help, because then all he hears is the sound of flesh on flesh, and- yeah, that…is less than useful.

Rhys feels telltale prickles at the corner of his eyes, but refuses to let them fall, glaring up at the ceiling and willing them to evaporate through the heat of his glare. It’s stupid, so stupid, that one night is enough to spoil something he loves doing, because jerking off is something Rhys enjoys. Sex in general is _definitely_ something Rhys enjoys. Very thoroughly. In all manners and positions. But now he can’t even—

“Hey pumpkin, I’m ordering dinner, you want th—” Jack cuts himself off.

Rhys scrabbles at his boxers, pulling them up over his stupidly soft dick. His face feels so flushed right now, and he can’t even look Jack in the eye.

“Whoa hey, didn’t mean to interrupt.” Contrary to his words, Jack draws nearer. When Rhys dares to glance up, Jack’s staring- not at his crotch, but at Rhys’ face.

Oh, shit.

Rhys looks away again, praying that Jack doesn’t come close enough to see—

“Are you- is everything okay?” Jack picks up his pace until he’s right next to Rhys, staring down at him with something heavy in his gaze. He reaches out tentatively, until Rhys is making eye contact with him, and then closes those last few inches to brush at the stupid, _stupid_ tears leaking out from the corners of Rhys’ eyes.

Rhys closes his eyes, unable to keep meeting Jack’s gaze.

“Talk to me, Rhys.” Jack’s using his business voice, the one Rhys normally only ever hears in meetings and at work. It’s something Rhys can’t help but respond to.

“I was trying to- _ugh_ ,” Rhys opens his eyes, and glares at the ceiling instead of at Jack. “I was trying to jerk off, okay? And, as you can see-” He gestures at his crotch. “Laugh it up, Jack. All your jokes about my dick have come true.”

“Okay, first of all, they’re not jokes, because I _like_ your dick and its size, you moron.” Jack scowls, the scar on his bare face tugging downwards in a way that looks painful. “Second, you know I was right outside, right? And that I’m always ready to lend a hand with dick emergencies.”

His voice is playful, but when Rhys looks up, Jack’s eyes are dark behind the glasses, and he looks Rhys up and down with undeniable desire in his eyes. Somehow. Even with the bruises and stupid soft dick and…

_Sure, he’d fuck you, but that's just because that's all you’re good for._

Rhys stares up at Jack, trying not to let the heavy feeling in his chest show on his face.

“You- want to?” Rhys asks. The sinking feeling spreads, and part of Rhys goes, _oh_. This…this would explain why Jack’s been so nice these past few days, isn’t it? Rhys had been wondering, and the answer was there all along, in Vasquez’s slimy, but ultimately truthful voice.

“Yeah of course I do.” Jack frowns down at Rhys. “It’s not like you stopped being hot the moment you dumped me. Or that you’d ever, you know, not be hot to me. And stuff.”

“You dumped me.” Rhys corrects automatically, but inside, the heavy feeling feels like it’s taken over his entire body. Right, hot. That’s…he tells himself it’s a good thing, because at least this way he’s good for _something_.

Above him, Jack is still staring down at him, but with his brows furrowed. He opens his mouth, whether to ask a question or something, Rhys doesn’t know, because he speaks before Jack can.

“Do you wanna fuck?” It’s crude, and Rhys winces even as he says it, but he keeps eye contact with Jack, and is rewarded by the way Jack’s pupils dilate and his lips part.

Yet for some reason, Jack still holds back.

“Are you- are you okay with that though? I mean, _yeah_ of course I do, for you, always, but you’re supposed to be resting and—”

“I want to get the taste of Vasquez out of my mouth,” Rhys says bluntly, more truthfully than he’d planned.

Jack looks like he’s hesitating, Rhys can’t think of why. Maybe it’s the mention of Vasquez— of course it's the mention of Vasquez, god Rhys is such an _idiot_.

Pushing down the faint stirrings of panic, Rhys tries desperately to think of something to say that would convince Jack that Rhys can still be useful for him, isn’t completely soiled goods. He comes up with “I missed you.” It seems like the right thing to say.

Whatever thoughts Rhys might have had are driven out of his head as Jack bends down, and presses his lips against Rhys’ forehead, then eyes, then mouth.

“Yeah,” Jack says, very quietly. “Yeah.”

He moves back for a second to take his glasses off and place them on the bedside table, then returns and presses his mouth against Rhys’ again, the hard line of his scar ridge brushing against Rhys’ nose in a way that makes Rhys want to smile.

Instead, Rhys sighs, letting himself sink into the feeling. It would be so easy to pretend like he doesn’t know what he does now, pretend that this is real intimacy, and not just a prelude to what Jack clearly wants, which is to fuck Rhys and get things over with.

Jack’s hands begin to roam down Rhys’ body, pausing at his neck, his shoulders, his lower abdomen. Leaning back against the pillows, Rhys tugs Jack down with his grip on the back of Jack’s neck, pulling him gently but insistently until Jack climbs up onto the bed next to Rhys.

“Fuck,” Jack mumbles, mouth pressing against Rhys’ neck as his hands slide under Rhys’ borrowed t-shirt. “I missed this.”

“Yeah?” Rhys murmurs, moving to do what he knows Jack likes. Strokes the back of Jack’s neck and brings his hand back to tip Jack’s chin up, kisses Jack hard, with tongue, in the way that always gets Jack going.

“Kiss me,” Rhys says, when Jack seems to be content with breathing open-mouthed against Rhys’ jaw as he goes to play with Rhys’ nipples. Jack obliges, grinning fierce against Rhys’ mouth. “Kiss me,” Rhys says again when Jack pulls back to stare at Rhys with something heavy and deliberate in his gaze.

Jack laughs, low and almost breathy, and pulls away to strip his shirt and pants off. He’s commando beneath it, and Rhys can’t help but smile at the familiarity of it all.

“Like what you see?” Jack waggles his eyebrows at Rhys, before leaning in and pulling Rhys’ shirt off before Rhys can stop him. Startled, Rhys shrinks back, resisting, but then he remembers what he’s supposed to be doing, and bows his head, lets Jack pull the shirt the rest of the way off. Luckily, Jack doesn’t seem to notice his hesitation.

Shirt off, Rhys feels stupidly vulnerable, and he brings a hand up, trying to cover his body half-heartedly.

“Shh, Rhys, it’s okay.” Jack catches Rhys’ hand. He leans forward, and mouths at the yellowing bruise that spreads over Rhys’ left side. “You’re still hot, don’t worry.”

“…Yeah.” Rhys says, closing his eyes. Good, he thinks. Still hot. He can work with that. “Come on then, fuck me.”

He’s startled into opening his eyes when Jack pulls back.

“Really? We shouldn’t, the medic put you on a liquid diet for a reason, Rhysie.” Jack frowns. “We don’t have to fuck.”

“No, it’s okay.” Rhys pulls Jack down using the grip Jack has on his wrist. “I- I touched myself there just now, it’s fine,” he lies. He’s not actually sure if that’s a good idea, but the insidious voice in his head is whispering, telling him that he needs to prove he’s still useful to Jack.

Vasquez was right, after all.

“I’m fine,” he repeats, and pulls Jack’s hand up to his mouth to kiss. “Fuck me.”

Jack doesn’t look reassured, but Rhys keeps going. “I need you in me, please Jack,” he says, shaking Jack’s hand off to stroke at Jack’s dick, which is- reassuringly hard. He shudders at the feel of Jack’s cock in his hand, and hopes that Jack thinks it's a shiver of anticipation. It will be, he tells himself. He just needs to get used to it again. That’s all.

“Okay, but I’m gonna use a crapton of lube,” Jack warns. It’s not much of a warning, really, not with the way his cheeks are flushed and he can’t take his eyes off Rhys’ hand.

“Sure,” Rhys says agreeably, and lets go with relief to turn over onto his front. He figures that this way, his stupidly, stubbornly, soft dick, which has thankfully escaped Jack’s notice so far, can continue its winning streak of not being noticed.

“W-w-wait, hold up.” Jack’s voice doesn’t stop him, but the hands on his shoulders do. “I wanna see your face, pumpkin.”

Rhys flinches, and is glad that he’s already facing the pillow. “Nah, this- it’ll be easier like this,” he says. “My back kinda hurts, I don’t think—”

Jack’s hands leave his shoulders instantly, only to come back to rub tentatively along the unbruised areas of Rhys’ sides.

“Yeah, right, yeah of course,” Jack says, slowly.

Rhys pauses. “We can- I can turn back over, if that’s what you want?” Maybe by then his dick would have caught up and stopped being so _stupid_.

“No!” Jack barks, before his voice gentles. “No, this is good. Easier on your back, right?”

“Okay,” Rhys says with no small amount of relief.

On his front, not facing Jack, it’s a lot easier to think that his shudders are being read as good shivers. To help that along, Rhys moans, encourages Jack with breathy exhalations and pushes back against his fingers, no matter how much he can’t stop seeing black and red sheets beneath his hand, and hearing the whir of the camera lens over the slick, obscene noises of Jack fucking three fingers into him.

Despite his assurances to Jack that all this prep isn’t really necessary, _seriously Jack, you don’t need half an entire bottle can we please get on with it already_ , Jack takes his time, a crapton of lube, and approximately half a century to prepare Rhys until he’s satisfied. Then, _finally_ , he’s kneeling up behind Rhys and sliding in with a groan that Rhys echoes.

Rhys clenches his eyes shut, and tries to drown out the memories that the sounds of flesh slapping on flesh and the feeling of something thrusting hard and heavy in him are bringing back. To distract himself, he tries to focus on making it good for Jack, moaning and humping back against him, even as he hears Vasquez’s voice heavy in his ears.

_That’s it, take all that cock in, you’re made for it, aren’t you. Look at your slutty little hole, asking for more._

Shaking his head, Rhys drops down onto his elbow, and moans Jack’s name, as loud as he dares, trying to drown out Vasquez’s voice. That it makes Jack’s rhythm stutter as he groans in reply and bends to bite at Rhys’ neck is only a plus.

Annoyingly, his dick still refuses to join the party, and Rhys glares down at it even as he’s jolted forward with every single one of Jack’s thrusts.

“Come _on_ already,” he hisses, then jumps when Jack’s voice comes, right at his ear.

“You say something, kitten?” Jack’s voice is ragged, but still coherent, and he licks at Rhys’ neck without waiting for a reply.

“Uh, nothing!” Rhys pants, panicked, and blurts out the thing that comes first to mind. “You just feel really good, harder, please.”

Jack moans, breath warm against Rhys’ ear. “Fuck, you feel good Rhysie, so tight.”

Rhys freezes, Jack’s words echoing along with Vasquez’s. For one long moment, their voices, blur, and Rhys can’t think, can’t move. Then Jack’s thrusting in again, breaking the moment, and Rhys collapses, away from Jack’s heat, buries his face in the pillow, because otherwise he thinks he might scream.

He feels betrayed by his body all over again, angry about the way his dick isn’t stiffening, the way his shoulders are tensed to stop the shudders from getting too bad, the way his eyes are burning and dry.

Jack’s hand on the back of his neck brings him out of it, somewhat.

“You okay there, kitten?”

“Y-yeah, I’m fine,” Rhys gasps into the pillow, thanking his lucky stars that Jack can’t see his face right now. “Keep going!”

Jack thankfully takes his word for it, but maybe that's because he’s thrusting in that jerky, off-rhythm way that usually means he’s on the verge of coming.

Finally, Rhys thinks almost deliriously. It’s almost over; he’s doing a good job.

Jack collapses against Rhys’ back when he comes, making Rhys grunt against the extra weight. It’s a relief though; he takes the weight, and the hot come trickling out of his hole as signs of a job well done, and breathes as deep as he can, reminding himself that this is _Jack_. Not Vasquez, not anybody else.

It’s hard, with Jack’s mass pressing down on his back, and with the way his ass feels loose and well-used, but he tells himself it’ll get easier, with time.

“God, _Rhys_ ,” Jack groans, before rolling off Rhys’ back to thump heavily down next to him. He slings an arm around Rhys’ back, large hand going to curl around Rhys’ right shoulder. “Did you come yet? Here, let me help you out with that.”

Before Rhys can answer, can distract Jack, he’s being turned over by gentle hands, and Jack’s reaching down to jerk Rhys off, and-

“Shit, what?” Jack sits up, voice hard. “Rhys?”

“Sorry!” Rhys screws his eyes shut, away from the- anger? disappointment? in Jack’s voice. He brings his hand down to try and cover his cock, cover how it’s limp and shrunken even more than usual. “I’m sorry, I tried, I—”

“No no no no, Rhysie, c’mere, look at me babe.” Jack’s hands are gentle, but firm as they go to pull Rhys’ hand away, and to press at Rhys’ face. “Don't- look, I’m just- I’m worried, okay? Shit, was this- _Rhys_.”

Rhys turns his face away, shame curling up in his throat. “I wanted to make it good for you. I- To thank you, for helping me. You didn’t have to, I know.”

There’s a long pause, and he doesn’t know how to fill it, so he lies there, left arm limp at his side, and Jack’s hands warm on his face.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Jack says finally. “When I find out who did this to you, I’m gonna tie him down, and scoop out chunks of his flesh with a fork and make him eat them. I promise you, Rhysie, I’ll make sure there’ll be _nothing_ left when I’m done.”

Rhys makes a face at the mental image, glad that they’ve moved away from the topic of his useless dick.

“But in the meantime.” Okay, maybe not. “In the meantime, kiddo, please. Look at me.”

Rhys reluctantly shifts his gaze to meet Jack’s blue eye. The other, milky green one looks more red-tinged than usual, and Rhys wonders vaguely if Jack’s been using his eye drops like he’s supposed to.

“In the meantime, babe, _please_ , I’m gonna need you to _talk_ to me. I can’t- it’s not fun unless you want it too, okay? I know I’m an asshole, but I’m not- Look. Rhys.” Jack hovers a hand over Rhys’ crotch, close but not touching. His gaze is fixed on Rhys’ own, brows furrowed. “I- Okay, I should’ve checked in with you earlier. I just thought-” He cuts himself off, and then flings himself off the bed to pace around the room, something frenetic and angry in his movements.

It’s oddly cold without Jack pressing close.

“Just- look, don’t. Not to thank me or anything, okay? I only want to when you want to. Did you?” Jack returns, and sits on the edge of the bed, close but not touching.

Rhys shrugs. “I thought I did, but I couldn’t come. And then…”

Jack sighs explosively, running both hands through his hair messily. “Okay, I am way out of my depth to have this conversation, clearly. This…this shouldn’t have happened. Do you- I can find a counselor or something? Do you want to come with me on Saturday?”

Rhys looks away, heart thumping. It doesn’t- on one level, he knows he _should_ , and boy is it an irony that it’s Jack who’s the one asking him to go for counseling, considering Rhys was the one to suggest Jack start it in the first place. On the other hand, he doesn't really want to have to think about what happened in too much detail. Not yet. Maybe someday, hopefully someday. But not right now.

“…Maybe next week?” He offers, when Jack just _sits_ there and stares, despite his clear itching to move.

“Okay! I’ll start looking.” Released from his self-inflicted stillness, Jack leaps off the bed in a flurry of movement towards the doorway. Then he pauses, and turns back to Rhys. “Wait, let’s get you back into clothing and- I’m done fixing your arm, by the way. Do you want to put it back on?”

Rhys sits up, surprised. “What happened to my arm?”

Jack scowls, anger rippling across his face. “Your index and middle finger were practically torn out of their sockets, and there were dents all over it. Also some of the wiring got ripped out. Seriously, rusty fork on that guy’s balls, I promise.”

“…oh.” Rhys says, in lieu of having anything else to say to that.

“Or maybe I’ll stick the fork up his ass, then use it to gouge out his eyeballs.” Jack brightens. “That sounds like a good idea, I _like_ it. Definitely gonna go with that.”

He helps Rhys pull his boxers back on, pauses at Rhys’ shirt, then disappears into the living room before returning with Rhys’ arm. Some of the casing plate sections are obviously newer than the rest, and Rhys fingers the new plates uncertainly.

It always takes a while for his body to readjust to the arm once it’s been off for a while; the neural connections have been slow to reconnect to the arm’s input processors ever since that patch a couple years back. When the bars on his forearm finally light up all the way, he turns his palm over and starts up the usual programs, only to blink when it flashes insistently, and a voicemail starts playing without any prompting.

“Hello, _Rhys_.” At the familiar, smug tone, something in Rhys’ lungs catches, and he stares down at his hand in mute panic.

“What- what is it, what’s wrong?” Jack’s voice is sharp, but it’s overridden by the voicemail as it continues.

“Hope you had fun the other night. I know _I_ did. Heh. Did you get home safely? Wouldn’t want you to get _hurt_ now, would we.” Vasquez’s voice coos, falsely sympathetic.

“Who the hell—”

“Thought you might like a little reminder of how… _enthusiastic_ you were the night before. It warms my soul, really, to know that a cock-hungry slut like you is beginning to learn its place in the bigger order of things.”

It takes a huge amount of willpower for Rhys to shake himself out of his petrified stupor, to reach down with his left hand, and try to tap out of the voicemail. Unfortunately, it’s to no avail; he fumbles once or twice, gets the right button on the third try, but the voicemail keeps on playing relentlessly.

“-- _I’m a useless slut for your cock, please fuck me, I’m sorry, I’ll do anything_ \--"

It’s ragged and worn thin, but unmistakably Rhys’ voice playing out in the dead silence of the room.

Rhys clenches his left hand into a fist, then lets it fall to the side helplessly. Seated in front of him from where he’d been helping Rhys reattach the arm, Jack is very, very still. When Rhys chances a glance up, shame and fear twinned into a formless weight in his stomach, Jack’s jaw is clenched, and he’s looking at the wall of the room blankly. Then the recorded Rhys moans, before being cut off by a sharp slapping sound, and Jack _snaps_.

“Stay.” Jack says, very shortly, before getting up and leaving the room, fury radiating in every step he takes.

The recording plays on for an eternity of minutes, before Vasquez’s voice comes back on, voice husky with lust and practically dripping with glee. It’s a familiar tone.

“Bring back any memories, Rhysie? You, me, our bandit friends. All having fun like a happy family. Now, I’m sure you wouldn’t want anybody to…chance on our little happy family unit now, would you? It would certainly spoil the fun. Or, oh, what if a copy of this got sent to your favorite Handsome Jack? Do you think he’d like it? Don’t worry, I’d make sure to…loosen you up, so you don’t have to worry about being the dirty cock tease that seems to come so naturally to you. I’m sure Jack--"

Jack doesn’t even react to his own name as he re-enters the room, wires and laptop in hand, and an expression of grim determination on his face.

“--wouldn’t mind fucking you if he didn’t have to dirty his hands. And I’d make sure he doesn't have to. I’ll even let you pick, because I’m _generous_ like that. Facedown on the bed with your ass up, or legs tied to your shoulders so your ass is up? Gotta showcase your best assets, am I right, Rhys? Or in your case, your _only_ assets. Oh, and your mouth too, of course.”

Rhys lets the words wash over him, the humiliation and terror that he thinks he _should_ be feeling just kind of…not hitting him or something. He stares down blankly at his hands. The blinking light on his palm as it continues to play the voicemail feels a little bit unreal, like if he looks at it directly, it might not exist. Or _Rhys_ might not exist. So he doesn’t look at it directly, doesn’t look at anything directly, and just lets Vasquez’s words roll over him, oily and poisonous and relentless.

Rhys doesn’t react when Jack picks up his right hand, and sticks a wire into the port at the wrist. He feels like he _should_ , should be curious, should be afraid, should blurt out apologies or run from Jack, but he can’t bring himself to do anything other than try to keep breathing.

“What I’m trying to say, just in case your little walnut head needs explicit instructions: my apartment, this Friday, same time we met at the bar. Or copies of your venture into _explicit_ photography will go out to everybody. And I mean _everybody_.” Vasquez’s voice hardens. “Don’t disappoint me, Rhys. I’ve got more friends where Finch and Kroger came from.”

The voicemail light stops blinking. Rhys wonders if he still exists, now that the blinking as stopped.

“Got him.” Jack’s voice is cold and very deliberate, and then he’s pulling the wire out of Rhys’ wrist, picking up his laptop, which the other end of the wire is connected to, and leaving the room.

Rhys doesn't know if time passes between Jack leaving, and Jack’s return, but he notes distantly that Jack’s got his mask on now, and is fully dressed, no longer in his sweatpants and t-shirt, but in his full set of layers. When Jack re-enters the room, he’s no longer the Jack from before, but Handsome Jack, and Rhys flinches back from the force of his presence without thinking.

“It’s okay sweetheart.” Jack comes close, and picks up Rhys’ right hand to lay a kiss on the palm. “I’m off to clean up some trash, be back in a bit. I’ve called your buff friend over, he should be arriving soon.” He presses another kiss to Rhys’ palm, and sets it down in Rhys’ lap gently.

Rhys looks up. It takes him a couple of seconds to refocus on Jack’s face. The grim expression from before is still there, seems to have settled into the lines of Jack’s mask with familiar ease. His eyes, as he stares down at Rhys, are hard in a way that is…oddly comforting.

Rhys opens his mouth, to apologize, to ask what’s going on, to tell Jack to be safe—all the things he wants to say, should be saying, tangle in his mouth, get caught up in the woollen, muted feeling that’s spread throughout his body, and he clamps his lips shut to keep them in.

Jack, for his part, looks like he wants to say something too. He makes an aborted move forward to Rhys, but that's when the doorbell rings, leaving his hand frozen and hovering near Rhys’ face.

They stare at each other above Jack’s hand for a long moment, maybe two. Then the doorbell rings again, and Jack clears his throat, mumbles something about bringing cheesecake back for Rhys, and leaves.

Faintly, Rhys can hear the main door opening, and the low murmur of familiar voices before the bedroom door clicks open, and Vaughn is there, with a huge duffel bag slung over his shoulder, oddly enough.

“Bro…” Vaughn’s voice is hushed, and Rhys looks away from his shocked expression, the way his eyes are trailing across the healing scab on Rhys’ cheek, the bruises on his bared torso. “I- Are you okay?”

Rhys shrugs weakly, and reaches out for his t-shirt to put it on. When he pulls it over his head, Vaughn’s pulled a chair out from the desk nearby, and shifted it so he can sit beside the bed.

“You know, I’ve complained to you about Jack being a weirdo lots of times-”

Rhys snorts, shaken slightly out of his grey stupor by the familiarity of Vaughn talking shit about Jack. “Lots of times” is an understatement. Something about Jack rubs Vaughn the wrong way. Okay, Rhys can see how lots of things about Jack would rub _many_ people the wrong way. But still.

“- but I swear, I’ve never been so glad that you’re dating our homicidal boss.” Vaughn scowls, the expression out of place on his normally genial face. “I take it he managed to track down whoever did…this to you?” He gestures vaguely at Rhys’ body.

“Yeah it was-” Rhys clears his throat. “It was Vasquez, actually. He left a voicemail. Jack overheard.”

“ _Ass-quez_?!” Vaughn yelps. “Why the- because you’re dating Jack?”

“No, nobody knows, remember.” Rhys points out. “We kept it on the down low.”

“Oh, oh yeah, right.” Vaughn sits back down, still scowling. “God, I _hate_ that guy. Remember how he set up his door to open every time we walked past so it’d hit our faces? What an asshole.”

Rhys laughs, the sound sharp and jagged in his throat. “Guess he got bored of that.”

“…Yeah.” Vaughn says quietly.

They sit there in heavy silence, and Rhys…well. Rhys goes back to staring at the wall opposite the bed, trying to think through the fog in his mind.

“Hey, you wanna- I brought cookie dough we can eat it straight from the tub or make some cookies? If you like?” Vaughn blurts out.

When Rhys turns his head to look at him, Vaughn’s dumping the huge duffel bag onto the bed beside Rhys, and digging through it.

“I’ve got cookie dough, ice cream, your favorite movies, where’s that bottle of that weird beer brand you like, I swear I- oh there it is.” Vaughn continues listing out items as he takes them out, one by one, and lays them out beside Rhys, a neat pile of his favorite comfort-things.

Rhys stares at each item as it’s brought up, something deep inside him welling up and pushing through the cotton wool feeling.

“Um, Rhys?”

Rhys blinks, and takes a shuddering breath. In front of him, Vaughn is a blurry, concerned looking blob.

“I’m fine, bro,” Rhys says, hearing the hoarseness in his own voice. “Thank you.”

“No problemo, buddy-o.”

There’s a long, quiet moment. Rhys breathes, looks at the slowly melting ice cream, and feels the horrible emptiness slowly recede. It’s hard to hear the echo of Vasquez’s cruel words, in the face of his best bro’s familiar, comforting presence.

“Hey uh. Is it cool if I—” The Vaughn-shaped blob shuffles a little closer. “Can we bro-hug? Only if you’re totally cool with it of course, it’s just been like a while, and I’ve been really worried, and…” He trails off, shrugging awkwardly as he adjusts his glasses, a familiar nervous tic. “I missed you, bro.”

Rhys snorts, and pushes the pile of comfort items aside (ice cream handled with its due respect) to reach out for Vaughn. He buries his face in Vaughn’s shoulder, wraps his arms around Vaughn’s middle, and just takes a deep, shuddering breath. And then another. And another.

“You scared me, Rhys.” Vaughn mumbles into Rhys’ hair. He sounds suspiciously clogged up, and his chest between Rhys’ arms, while as comfortingly solid and muscled as ever, moves in rather quicker breaths than normal. “I-I’m really glad you’re…”

Rhys sniffs, the sound embarrassingly wet, and burrows tighter into Vaughn’s embrace. The position is awkward; the edge of what feels like his old game console is digging into his hip, he’s bent uncomfortably so he can reach Vaughn, and Vaughn’s glasses are pressing into the side of Rhys’ head in a way that feels mildly precarious. Like this though, Rhys feels more like himself than he has in days. More present.

Vaughn’s arms are warm around him. When one comes up to stroke tentatively down Rhys’ back, Rhys gives in, squeezes his eyes shut even tighter, and lets out a sob.

Vaughn keeps rubbing at Rhys’ back as he murmurs comforting words. Rhys doesn’t catch what he’s saying at first, too busy focusing on Vaughn’s solid warmth and the way the words thrum through Vaughn’s chest. When he comes back to himself enough, he realizes with a start that Vaughn’s talking about Jack, of all people.

“—not that I’m _condoning_ it or anything, and you can say _I told you so_ all you want after, but now that all this has happened? You’re right. Jack’s not such a bad guy. Or at least, he’s not a great guy, but I’m glad you guys are…y'know. Whatever. Man, I can’t wait to see what he’s gonna do to Ass-quez.” Vaughn’s voice takes on a darkly satisfied tone, one that Rhys has never heard from him before. “He mentioned something about a rusty fork, and boy I hope he takes pictures.”

“…He did say something about rusty fork and V- well, balls. Rusty fork and balls.” Rhys says, snorting a little at the idea because it’s so _Jack_.

“Good.” Vaughn’s arms tighten even more around Rhys. “You’re my best bro, bro.”

“You too, bro.” Rhys mumbles, sniffing a little. “Thanks for coming down.”

Vaughn pulls away from Rhys a little, enough so that he can thunk his forehead against Rhys’. “Rhys. You’re my _best bro_. I’ll always come down for you. Even if it’s to Jack’s apartment. Which, by the way, you totally need to give me a tour, because I’m pretty sure I saw a stuffed skag at the entrance? And I need photo evidence that Handsome Jack has a stuffed skag. I’m just saying.”

Rhys laughs, and sits back to rub at his face, not looking at Vaughn. “It was a gift from Nisha. He dumps his keys in the skag’s mouth when he’s home.”

Vaughn makes a face. “Of course he does. C’mon, show me around before he gets back and kicks me out.”

\---

Rhys stirs, something tugging him to consciousness. He furrows his brow, trying to will whatever it is to go away. It’s voices, he realizes, familiar voices, and he grumbles a bit at them to shut up, resettling himself and the couch cushion he’s buried his face in.

It seems to work. They pause, and he hears footsteps receding away, but by then it’s too late, he’s unwillingly drawn across the boundary of sleep. Irritated, Rhys is about to open his eyes to say something, but he catches his own name, and stops himself just in time.

“—of Rhys. I’m not sure how long the cleanup will take- Wallethead had his fat fingers in like a thousand pies, and I’m gonna have to clean up every friggin’ last one of them. God I _hate_ these stupid ambitious little dipshits so much.”

“Yeah, sure. I, uh. Are you sure we can’t move back into our- yeah, okay, I’ll take that as a no.” A pause, and a familiar sounding sigh. “Do you…do you think he’ll be okay? Should we be, I dunno, getting him to talk to someone?”

“Oh, I’m getting him to talk to someone alright. I’ve got Tim asking around, he knows all these _people_.” Rhys can practically hear the way Jack’s face is scrunched up at the thought. There’s an odd, clenching feeling in his chest, half panic that Tim knows, and half…something weird and soft at the idea that Jack contacted Tim, for Rhys.

The Vasquez voice in his head murmurs, something nasty and odious. _He’s just doing it so you won’t be too broken to fuck_. It’s quieter than before though, and Rhys finds it easier to ignore, after hours spent talking with Vaughn.

Earlier, at some point in the afternoon, halfway through a pint of ice cream and one of his favorite movies, Vaughn had made an offhand comment about how he’d thought Rhys and Jack had broken up. When Rhys had said that yeah, they technically were _still_ broken up, Vaughn had given him a Look. It’s not one that he turns on Rhys very often. The last time Rhys had been on the receiving end of one of Vaughn’s Looks, they’d both been in college, and Rhys had just set off the fire alarm while trying to cook instant noodles with a hair dryer. It’s a look that Vaughn only uses when he thinks Rhys is being colossally, massively stupid, and it’s not one that Rhys is particularly fond of.

“Rhys,” Vaughn had said, very gently, like he was talking to an idiot. Rhys had scowled at him instinctively, but the scowl had faded as Vaughn continued. “When I thought that Jack did it, left all those marks on you, I was- I was really mad, alright? Mad and stupid enough to go confronting Handsome fucking Jack in his office. God, I thought I was gonna die, but you looked so- We’re best bros, y’know. But when he saw you, it was…I was _glad_ , because he looked like, y’know the Terminator-Bot series? Where Terminator-Bot is all terrifying and ready to wreck shit up? He looked like that, _for you_ , and that was like, way more comforting than any vengeance plan I had against whoever fucked you up, man. And when he called me today, he had this look on him. I’m just saying, man. That’s a really intense look for someone who’s supposedly broken up with you.”

And as Rhys had looked around the living room where they were sitting, at all the detritus of Jack’s presence, it had been…hard, to ignore Vaughn’s words. Jack, who stayed in the office for weeks at a time, and who would pause while in the middle of fucking to take business calls. Jack had brought his work home so he could stay with Rhys.

“Anyway,” Vaughn had said, catching Rhys’ attention as he leaned forward to steal the last of Rhys’ ice cream. “I take back all the times I’ve complained about him being an asshole. I’m glad he’s _your_ asshole.”

Vaughn’s words thrum in his mind, drowning out Vasquez’s voice as Rhys slowly opens his eyes. Rhys suspects that it won’t always be easy like this, but for now, he’s willing to take it.

“Oh, he’s awake.”

When Rhys squints over the edge of the couch cushion he’s hugging, he sees Vaughn and Jack standing not too far away, both faces turned to him.

“Hey,” he says, voice sleep scratchy. “You’re back.”

“Hey yourself.” Jack strides over to the couch to stand over Rhys, hands hanging loose at his sides as he just…stares. Rhys looks at him for about a whole two seconds before he has to break eye contact. 

Vaughn looks between Rhys and Jack, before clearing his throat. “I’m uh…just gonna go back and pick up my clothes and stuff. I’ll be back tomorrow morning. See ya then, Rhys.”

Rhys watches him leave, snorting when he sees Vaughn pet the stuffed skag on his way out. He keeps staring at the door even after it shuts, not entirely willing to face Jack right now.

Unfortunately, Jack doesn't seem to be in on that plan.

“Rhys…” Jack says finally, crouching down so that he’s eye level with Rhys, who still hasn’t moved to sit up. “Hey. I wanna talk to you.”

Rhys winces, and sits up, darting a quick look at Jack to try and gauge his mood. He’s still got his mask on, though the focused, terrifying mania from earlier seems to have faded. Jack moves to sit on the floor in front of Rhys, large hands placed on Rhys’ knees, rubbing them almost absently as he watches him back, face expressionless.

“If this is about me staying, I can…” Rhys doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence before Jack’s snorting, and kneeling up, reaching out to clasp Rhys’ face with both hands. Rhys jerks back instinctively, but Jack doesn’t back away this time.

“Rhys. Look at me. Don’t be a dumbass, dumbass. You’ll stay here for as long as you need to, as long as you want. Don’t get me wrong, I want you to stay longer than that, but I’m not gonna- put you under house arrest or anything. As long as you want. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about that.” Jack’s hands are warm, so very warm against Rhys’ cheeks. “I wanna apologize.”

Rhys has been trying to avoid Jack’s gaze- hard, with how close Jack’s face is- but at Jack’s words, he’s surprised enough to make eye contact.

“You? Apologize?” Rhys says, incredulously. “Tim, is that you?” He asks it, half-jokingly, and half actually worried that it’ll turn out to be Tim after all.

“Ha.” Jack’s eyes narrow at the mention of Tim. “Funny, kiddo. Very funny.”

“I’m just saying, I don't think I’ve ever seen you apologize for anything before,” Rhys says wonderingly. “Not even when you forgot my birthday. Two years in a row.”

“Okay, your birthday happens to fall during a very busy—” Jack cuts himself off, snapping his teeth shut irritably. He takes a deep breath, and Rhys kind of can’t help but smile, at the familiarity of the argument, at how Jack’s goaded past treating Rhys like a fragile thing. It feels nice. “Look. I…I should’ve called you back. I’m sorry. It’s one thing to be busy with work, but another to neglect your, well. Neglect you.”

Rhys wonders if he’s in an alternate dimension, but this feels more real than anything in a very long time. Jack’s hands on his face, Jack’s eyes, wide and mute and conveying more emotion than Jack’s stunted words.

“I know I’m not the most…I’m not great. At this stuff. But that’s no excuse. And I’m sorry. I don’t know- after all this, I don’t know if you’ll even want to try again, but I’m hoping you’ll give me a second chance. Give us a second chance. I wanna make it up to you.” Jack pulls Rhys close, very carefully, as if afraid that Rhys might pull away. When Rhys doesn’t resist, he places a very careful, very light kiss on Rhys’ forehead. “And I want you to _talk_ to me. I don’t want anything like what happened earlier to happen again, okay?”

Rhys pulls away, spluttering a little. Part of it is the sheer incredulity of _Jack_ of all people saying he wants to talk, but most of it…It’s weird, hearing Jack say all these things. Weird and almost dreamlike, and an increasingly frenzied, panicked part of him wonders if this is all a dream. If the past few days have all been a dream, and he’s going to wake up in Vasquez’s bed.

“You. Want me to talk. To you. About _feelings_.” Rhys says, testing the words out. Saying them out loud doesn’t make them feel any less ridiculous.

Jack rolls his eyes, and his grip on Rhys’ face changes, until he’s very definitely pinching at Rhys’ cheeks. Well, one of them. Jack’s hand on the cheek where Vasquez’s metal finger had cut in is very gentle, even though the scab is mostly healed over by now.

“Ow,” Rhys says, mildly offended at the cheek pinching. He’s seen Jack do it to Angel often enough to find it condescending.

“Still think it’s a dream?” Jack says, and rolls his eyes again for good measure. “Really though. What happened earlier…it shouldn’t have happened. I don’t want you thinking that you _owe_ me or anything. I like it when we bang, but only if we’re both into it. Like, you have no idea how much of an ego trip it is, when you’re coming your brains out and you get like, this really dumb expression and your face is all red and—” Jack clears his throat. “I’m just saying. I can wait, and I can help, if that’s what it takes for it to be good for you again. Not a hardship for me to keep helping you out with dick emergencies. In fact, what’s like the opposite of a hardship? An easyship? Softsh—”

He’s cut off as Rhys lunges forward, and kisses him. Hard at first, but Jack’s the one who moves things into a softer pace, hands going to twine gently in Rhys’ hair and press at the corner of Rhys’ mouth as he kisses back, taking control. Rhys leans into it, closes his eyes and kisses back, and lets himself think that maybe things are going to be okay after all.

When Jack eventually pulls away, it’s to give Rhys a satisfied smile.

“By the way, I forgot. I’ve got a present for you. Think of it as the start of me trying to make things up. Wait here.”

He leaves, and when he returns, he’s got a box in his hands. It’s not very big, about the size of a pistol, and something _thumps_ in it as he sets it down in Rhys’ lap.

“It’s kinda gross, but I figured you’d wanna see it at least.”

“As gross as that time you tried to make a painting with your come?” Rhys asks, reaching out for the box.

“Okay, first of all, that was _art_. It’s meant to be gross. And…maybe? You’ll see.” Jack opens the box, and tilts it towards Rhys.

“Oh my g—” Rhys stares down at what is undoubtedly a severed pair of balls. Like, testicle balls. Not eyeballs. He kind of wishes it was eyeballs. Cringing, he uses two fingers to shut the lid of the box, and pushes it back towards Jack.

“Yep. Knew you’d find it gross.” Jack still looks ridiculously satisfied though, as he takes the box away. “Figured you’d wanna see though.”

“Is that…” Rhys trails off, eyes still fixed on the box despite himself.

“Yeah. One pair of Wallethead’s balls. I cut off his dick as well, but I uh, kind of shredded that.” Jack looks like the furthest thing from sorry. “Might’ve force-fed it to him while he could still scream.”

“…Good.” Rhys eventually says. Something twisted and dark kind of untwists a little, which is the opposite of how he _thinks_ he should be feeling, but right now all he can think of is that there’s no way Vasquez is ever going to be able to make good on his threats now. Or ever again. “You found him?”

“Heh. Found him, and a crapton of illegal shit.” Jack sets the box aside, and goes to rest his head in Rhys’ lap. Rhys runs a hand through Jack’s hair, combing through the thick unruly locks as Jack continues to talk. “Remember that bandit problem Opportunity’s been facing lately? We were wondering who’s been supplying them with tech, and it turns out Wallethead has been running a deal between them and the Edens. Gun parts, drugs, exotic pets, that kinda thing. Frickin’ dumbass, really. Nisha’s already running a deal with the Edens, and she knows better than to share it with dumbshit _bandits_. Plus, they’re terrified of her, and now we’ve got more leverage to bargain with them, thanks to this idiot.”

“There were bandits there,” Rhys blurts out, hands freezing in Jack’s hair as he remembers. “Two of them. And he said he had more friends.”

“Oh?” Jack lifts his head, eyes narrowed as he looks up at Rhys. “D’you have names?”

“Finch and Kroger.” Rhys feels a deep twinge in his gut as he says their names. He swallows, and continues. “That’s all I got. Sorry.”

“No, it’s more than good enough.” Jack sits up, and taps at his echo comm for a while before eventually making a satisfied sound. “That should get things moving even faster.”

“Things?”

“Yeah. We’ve tracked down the trading post Wallethead was using as a base with his moron bandit buddies. The cleanup will take a few weeks, but we’ll get them all.” Jack presses a kiss to Rhys’ knee. “Don’t worry babe, I’ll make sure none of them can touch you ever again.”

“I _really_ shouldn’t find that sweet,” Rhys mumbles, more to himself than anything.

“Yeah? I’m the best, it’s true.” Jack stands up, and bends down to give Rhys a kiss. And then another. “D’you wanna take a bath with me and then head to bed? I gotta head out early tomorrow, to supervise the cleanup down there.”

“You’re going down yourself?” Rhys says, mind skittering away from the idea of a bath. Of getting naked in front of Jack. It’s illogical, because just earlier today, they’d seen each other, but now…Rhys fidgets at the edge of the loose t-shirt he’s wearing, and thinks about all the still-healing marks on himself. No matter Jack’s words, he still feels…Dirty. And not in the way where baths would help.

“Yeah. I can stay up here, if you like. Buuuut I think your buddy’s already staked a claim on you for the next few days. Something about a movie marathon you’ve been holding out on him for weeks. Plus, I wanna make sure this goes _perfect_. Think of it as an early birthday present. Now c’mon. Bath?”

Rhys winces. “I don’t…”

“No, no, that’s fine.” Jack practically trips over the words to interrupt Rhys. “I’ll go shower first, it won’t take long. See you in bed?”

“Yeah, see you,” Rhys says faintly, and watches Jack traipse off to the bathroom. When the door shuts behind him, Rhys rubs at his face, and flings himself back against the couch.

He’s not quite sure how he feels right now. The horrible, heavy haze that’s been leaving everything feeling muted and muffled doesn’t feel quite so present now, but he can feel it waiting, like the wrong word or action will drop him right back into the middle of it. The dread sits heavy in his gut, and it doesn’t feel fair, to rely on Jack or Vaughn’s presence, to keep it at bay. Rationally, between Jack’s words and Vaughn’s, he knows that they’d want to help. But a tiny part of him wonders if they’d want to keep helping, if they knew what Rhys had done. How he’d ended up begging for it.

Groaning, he presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to use the resultant sparks to distract himself.

Maybe he should just. Tell Jack. Let him know now, so if he wants to give up on Rhys, he could. No false hope for either of them.

Before he can stop himself, he’s already walking to the bedroom, and to the bathroom in there.

“Rhys?”

The shower shuts off, and Jack, now unmasked, pokes his head around the door to frown at Rhys.

“What’s up, babe?”

“Oh. I uh, thought you’d be in the bath.” Rhys hovers near the door. “Was gonna…talk to you. Like you said.”

“Nah I figured if you weren’t joining me, I’d make it quick. If you wanna talk in here though, I’ll run a bath. You don’t have to join me, I just wanna lie down while you talk. That cool?” Jack steps out, dripping wet and casually naked.

Rhys feels himself flush a little. “Um. Sure.” Jack’s casual nudity was…well. Not really something you could get used to.

“Whatcha wanna talk about?” Jack asks, voice raised over the burbling of the tub filling.

It doesn’t take all that long to fill, perks of being in the most luxurious apartment complexes on Helios. Rhys waits till Jack’s settled into the tub before stepping into the bathroom.

“C’mere, pumpkin.” Jack gestures for Rhys to come closer. “Talk to me.”

Rhys goes to sit beside the tub, where Jack immediately reaches out to make skin contact, physical as ever.

“So. Talking.” Rhys makes a face at his own words, and then snorts when he sees the expression on Jack’s. “That is a _terrible_ listening face, Jack.”

“Hey, that’s my _I’m the most sympathetic man in the galaxy face_ , excuse you,” Jack says, dropping the look. “Here, lemme try again.”

“No. Nope. Oh my god, I can’t talk if you keep that expression up,” Rhys splutters, reaching into the tub to splash water at Jack’s face.

“Okay, okay.” Jack grins at Rhys. “Really though. I’ll keep quiet now.”

Rhys eyes him suspiciously. “Let’s see how long that lasts.” He continues, smiling at little at the indignant (but silent) expression Jack gives him. The smile doesn’t last very long. “I…I wanted to thank you. For um. For everything. But…uh. Look. We both heard the voicemail. I know you heard it. Heard me.” Rhys withdraws his hand from Jack, and hunches down a little, averting his gaze. “I…I didn’t stop them. I could’ve, there was one point where he took off the restraints, and I could’ve done something, stopped them, but I just. I just let them do it. Hell, I _participated_. I don’t—I _thought_ I didn’t want to, but I didn’t do anything to stop them, I- I tried to make it good for them, even. So.”

He’s breathing a little too fast, tripping over his words in an attempt to get them all out before he loses courage. Or Jack gets angry.

“So it’s. It’s my fault. _He’s_ not wrong. I- you know how I. You heard what I said, on the voicemail.” He darts a quick glance at Jack. To his trepidation, Jack’s just _watching_ him, face completely blank. “I don’t want to…You don’t. You don’t have to make up anything to me. I just. I want you to be happy. And I don’t know if I can. If I’m worth—”

“Stop.” Jack’s voice cuts through the babble. He sits up, sloshing water everywhere, and grabs Rhys’ shoulders. “Look at me. Babe. Rhys.”

Rhys reluctantly lets himself get pulled into looking at Jack. Jack, who’s looking back at him with something intense in his gaze.

“Listen. You remember that Caleo Crystallum based drug that was going around a couple years back?”

“Yeah, I remember you trying some, and trying to fuck me constantly for two days straight,” Rhys says, confused. “What’s that gotta do with anything?”

“It was like, ten hours tops! And my point is. That stuff was potent, right?” Jack waits for Rhys to nod before continuing. “But it’s not the most potent aphrodisiac out there. There’s stuff from Eden 6 that some of my scientists are testing out. Things that’ll make even the oldest grandma as randy as a rabbit in heat, whether or not they want to. Literally. Dentures and wrinkly skin flapping everywhere.”

Rhys makes a face at that description.

“A-and okay, get this. When I found whatshisface, he had a whole _suitcase_ full of that Eden 6 stuff.”

“…Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_. Trust me, kitten. There was nothing you could’ve done to stop them. Not with those drugs in you.”

“There was…a blue pill,” Rhys says slowly, wincing as he tries to recall. “And then a yellow one.”

“Yellow?” Something dark and angry flashes across Jack’s eyes. “Now I wish I’d left him alive.” He shakes his head, and refocuses back on Rhys. “Not. Your. Fault. That stuff would've turned even a friggin' nun into the next Moxxi. I’m not gonna deny that you have a fantastic skillset when it comes to taking and sucking cock, but that’s not _all_ you are. You, you’re _Rhys_. You’re _my_ Rhys. You have ridiculous taste in socks, and you drool too much in your sleep, but you’re also really fricking smart, and one helluva of a hacker, and a better person than 99% of the assholes on my space station. And I say this as the number one asshole on the space station.”

Rhys watches Jack, wide-eyed. Jack in turn makes a ridiculous face, like he’s tasted something sour, and continues.

“I don’t like saying this kinda sappy stuff, but. IloveyouIguess.”

“What.” Rhys can’t help but say flatly.

“You heard me. I’m not saying that again.”

“That is. I can’t believe you just.” Rhys shakes his head. Something in his chest feels like it’s bursting, and not in like a horror movie kind of way, but in a way that makes the fuzzy fog lift, like there’s a laser cutting through it. Jack’s stupidly endearing and ridiculous self being the laser makes Rhys want to laugh and cover his face at the same time. “The first time you say those words, and it’s like this? Really?”

“Hey. I’m unique and special, okay?” Jack lets go of Rhys’ shoulders, and shrugs, looking the most embarrassed that Rhys has ever seen him. “Really though. That guy was an idiot. Those drugs weren’t even properly tested, and he could’ve killed—well. Guess we don’t have to worry about him anymore. As for _you_ though.” He turns a glare on Rhys. “No more bullshit about you not fighting back, okay? Hell, I don’t think anybody could’ve. Maybe Nish, but she’s like, already immune to half the poisons out there.”

“Okay,” Rhys says. “Okay.” The bursting feeling in his chest is dizzying. He’d completely forgotten about the drugs that Vasquez had forced into him, and now he feels- absolved, almost. The guilt is still there, and the horror, but between Jack’s words, and the intensity of Jack’s gaze on him, he feels like. Like he can do this. Keep going.

“Yeah?” Jack says, still watching him. “Because if you want more sappiness, I’m not sure I can do that, but I can try. Uh, your eyes shine like the stars. Especially your echo eye. Even at night through your eyelid, which can get kinda annoying, but I like it because I never have to switch the lights on to go pee. Your hair is super shiny and soft, and I don’t know how, because you use more hair products than I’ve ever seen anybody use.”

“It’s all that hair product,” Rhys interjects, but he’s trying not to smile. Failing, mostly.

“Nah man, I just think its you. And your ridiculous hair,” Jack says, running a dripping wet hand through said hair. “Also your banging bod. Like, not even in an I want to bang you way, even though I always will, but like, you just look good. Yunno. Like, sometimes I see a jacket or a shirt, and I’m like, yeah, Rhys will look good in that. Even better out of it, but still good. Not sappy enough? Wait, I’ve got more.”

Rhys splutters, and shakes Jack’s hand out of his hair, laughing and flushed and feeling oddly lightheaded. It’s ridiculous, _Jack’s_ ridiculous, but this is what he’d signed up for, when he’d first started dating Jack.

“Your hands. Ohh man, your hands. Don’t even get me started on your hands. That arm of yours? I don’t know how you modded it, but it’s a work of art. I’m still kinda bummed you won’t let me install a laser into it, but it’s still awesome. Super awesome.”

“Jack, shut up!” Rhys covers his face, groaning. “Oh my god, I take it back, you’re the worst, you’re so embarrassing, god.”

“These sappy words not doing it for you?” Jack asks, grinning at Rhys.

“No!”

“Okay. How about this.” Jack’s grin fades, and he props his chin up on his arms, crossed over the side of the tub, to watch Rhys. “I really really like you. And I want you to be happy. I’ll do many things, for you to be happy. Especially if it means I get to rip people’s balls off, because that’s always fun. A happy coincidence. I’m…I’m sorry I didn’t show it to you more, before. I’ll try to make up for it. I promise.”

Rhys watches him, the way his wet hair curls over his forehead, and the milky green of his unmasked eye, with the heavy scar that drags the skin around it down a little. Jack blinks up at him, ostensibly languid and relaxed, though Rhys can _see_ the tension in Jack’s shoulders. They sit like there, watching each other, the sloshing water a faint susurration in the background.

Rhys makes a decision.

“Make space,” he says to Jack, as he moves to pull his borrowed clothes off. His hands shake, as he tugs Jack’s shirt off. The bruises are still there, ugly and yellowed. When he pulls the shirt off and drops it on the bathroom floor, he darts a quick look at Jack, hope and dread making his throat tight. But Jack’s just watching him, something tender in his gaze. No anger whatsoever. Rhys’ hands linger on the elastic of the boxers, not sure if this is a good idea.

“You can keep them on.” Jack offers, gesturing at the boxers. “If it’ll make you feel better.”

“No, I- no.” Rhys mumbles, takes a deep breath, and shoves them down. He winces, looking down at his soft cock and the bruises around his hips, but then Jack’s hand is there, warm and large as he splays it on Rhys’ hip.

“These’ll fade.” Jack’s words are a statement, a promise. “We’ll make new ones, if you want to. But these aren’t permanent. They’ll go away, and you’ll still be there.” He pulls Rhys in close slowly, waits for him to step out of the boxers.

Eventually, Rhys stands in front of Jack, naked, trying to convince himself to step into the tub.

“Come here, babe.” Jack says, voice very quiet. “Join me.”

Letting out a shuddering breath, Rhys steps in. The water laps, hot against his body, as Jack moves him to sit between Jack’s legs, back to Jack’s chest. Rhys shivers despite the heat, and turns his face to press it against the hot, damp skin of Jack’s neck.

Jack wraps his arms around Rhys, heavy and strong and enclosing. Safe.

“I’ve got you, kiddo.” Jack’s words are a murmur, barely audible as he presses them into Rhys’ hair. “We’ll do this together. I promise.”

The hush of the bathroom feels like a sanctuary. Rhys closes his eyes, relaxes into Jack's embrace, and breathes.

**Author's Note:**

> detailed warnings:  
> \- rape/non-con: Vasquez drugs and rapes Rhys, and records it for blackmail purposes.  
> \- dub-con: Rhys convinces Jack to have sex with him despite his own lack of desire for sex.  
> \- gore: Jack's revenge on Vasquez involves cutting off his balls. Off-screen, but he gives the balls to Rhys.


End file.
